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  1. The hoarding heart

    May 21, 2015 by kim

    I just put a shoe the size of my palm in a plastic bag and tied it off.

    It wasn’t a particularly cute shoe. It was a second-hand croc. It wasn’t attached to any particular memories. It didn’t cover a foot on its first trip to the beach or its last trip to see Grandpa, it didn’t come from a fairy or a long-absent friend, it didn’t have a name. It didn’t even have a mate. But it was my daughter’s. And I’ve been keeping it. She’s seven now and we measure her foot in terms of my arm, not my hand. Taby thinks it’s funny to watch me tear up when I see how far past my knuckles her toes land now. “Look, Mommy! They’re not baby feet any more! Does that make you cry?” But this shoe still fit in my hand.

    I hold pieces of her past like I want to hold her.

    I realized this morning two things. First, that I’ve become a bit of a hoarder. Her closet is filled with things I refuse to throw away in case she wants them some day. I weep picturing her tears of loss. What if that cloth belt becomes a snake she battles with her stuffed lion and finally her latent imagination is revealed? What if we someday unearth the Barbie that goes with this dress and Taby is inconsolable thinking of her beloved doll out there somewhere naked and freezing? What if some day I’m not here….?

    I am terrified that no one will love her like I do. She can be violent and abrupt. She can be cruel and dismissive. She can be overbearing and bossy. Of COURSE she can… she’s a person. She can also be sweet and funny. She asks me specifically, “Is this a kindness?” when she helps me in the kitchen? She hugs tightly and laughs loudly. She apologizes without shame and she gives without obligation. Who WOULDN’T love someone like that? But no one will ever love her like I do.

    The second thing I realized today is I believe that’s okay. She will never know how much I love her. Some day, should she have a child, (however the child finds her), she might get a glimpse or a whiff of my love for her. But even then, it will be different because that will be HER child. No one will ever love my daughter like I do because no one. Ever. Will be her mother.

    My earth stopped moving when my mother died. I don’t know how I continued to breathe. It is clear the love she gave me is incomprehensible, yes, but also continues in me. It can’t be stopped by shoes that are finally donated or bodies that are finally worn out. It grows and grows and grows and I can’t control it, no matter how much I may want to clutch it to me and hold it forever. Like my daughter, it is wild and free and no amount of begging or pleading on my part can contain it.

    My daughter will be loved. And she will be happy. She will be her own person and some day she will be that person without me to love her in my own special way, but that love will have gone nowhere. She will make it her own. Others will love her or not, but she will be fine.

    So I shall trust it. And let these bags of clothes go to some other mother’s child so there is room for what may come.

    I love you, Tabitha. And Charlotte.

  2. Teacher’s Daughter

    February 16, 2015 by kim

    Holy shit. I have eleventy billion things to do. I shouldn’t be here. But I just realized something that is flame through my fingertips and I had to. I just had to.

    I posted this on Facebook:

    One of the most wonderful and astonishing things about my child is her complete fearlessness.

    One of the most infuriating and terrifying things about my child… is her complete fearlessness.

    What I got back has sent me into a bit of a spin. The comments range from, “Just like her mama,” to, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Add to that the recent spate of Twitter comments about how people would like to be more like me and not ever give a fuck or laugh in the face of danger and I gotta come clean: I AM FUCKING TERRIFIED. I am. I’m scared of shit I understand and shit I don’t. I’m scared of the past and I’m scared of the future. I’m scared of not enough and I’m scared of too much. I’m scared of might-be’s and probably-won’t’s. I’m scared of people I know and people I’ve never met. I’m scared of me. Me now, me then, and me tomorrow. I’m fucking scared.

    That’s not what spun me and sent me here. I have that reaction a lot when people remark on my seemingly effortless zero-fucks-given attitude. I’m like, “Ohhhhhh, no. I give way too many fucks if anything. So to refrain takes some serious effort. My nature says a round of fucks for all!” I’m used to reminding people that I’m not some example of fearlessness. Hell, my fears and I are downright incestuous.

    What stunned me was the realization that, at one point, I MUST have been fearless. I had to learn to be afraid.

    My father and I, as my mother grew sicker and sicker, often had conversations in the car in which we both said a lot and neither one of us actually spoke to the other. This particular instance was before I was married, and we were discussing children and how to educate them. My father, having been a teacher for a quarter of a century, had some astute and amazing insights. But I branched off into a more esoterical neighborhood and commented that we all either learn from love or from fear.

    Dad’s scalp slipped backward in a way that always made him look like a wolf, flattening his ears. His lips pulled into a snarl and two fingers arced toward my face. “Fear. Is. The. ONLY. Teacher,” he intoned. I was more frightened of him than our chances of driving off the road as he looked at me. But I couldn’t stop myself. I answered, “I know. I am the product of that thinking.”

    I could stop there. I could point to imperfect parenting as the reason behind my stammering and pill usage. I could blame my timid heart and mouse-like mind on the beast that fathered me. But that would not be the truth.

    The truth hit me. Moments ago. My father scared the shit out of me because he loved me and that was the only way he knew how to teach me. He wanted me to never hurt. Never question my resolve. Never ever ever be scared. So he taught me fear, yes, but he LOVED ME.

    So while today I am still frightened, the love is where I get my courage. And that courage is enough for people to look at my lightening bolt of a daughter and say they know where she gets it from.

    Choosing love as an instructor doesn’t come naturally to me. But it’s working. And it’s spreading. I heartily and hesitantly invite you to give it a shot. As I’ve said before, fear says, “I will make you safe.” Love says, “There is nothing to fear.” And while it is baffling to me how to raise a child without fear as a tool, I am so unbelievably grateful my own father loved me enough so it’s even a possibility.



  3. in all honesty

    December 11, 2014 by kim

    My hand grabbed the ledge just as I heard an ominous crack beneath my left foot. The shelf supporting my weight had been built for shoes and, as Pro My Body as I may be, I harbor no delusions that I weigh as much as even a Doc Martin. I swung my other leg up and managed to hook onto a beam, only marginally damaging my groin in the process, and thought, “This is so gonna suck if I die in my closet. How will I explain it to my husband?”

    Okay, maybe I better back up.

    The astute members of my following may have noticed a… gap in my writing. The astute and long-term followers may also remember some gems I’ve dropped here and there, alluding to my fondness for painkillers and how I probably should lose my privileges. See, here’s the thing about a brain that doesn’t function normally. Some brains think there’s no difference between admitting there’s a problem and ADDRESSING the problem. “Yeah. It’s leaking. We should do something about that.” Then, five hours later, “WHY THE FUCK IS EVERYTHING WET?” seemed like a perfectly rational way to look at life. There’s a Thing. Poof! Thing gone!

    Other avid readers may remember some fun times involving the clusterfuck that was, and I say this with all love and compassion, the final days of my Dad’s life. Again, NORMAL brains would look at something like that and say, “Wow. I grew up with that, that’s a large part of my genetic code, I should really be on the lookout for any similarities with me.” However, a brain like mine says, “Puh-lease. I’ll worry when I find out I’ve been waving guns at police officers while totally stark buck naked nude. Til then, I’m aces!”

    And I really was. I kept my shit together. I didn’t doctor shop. I didn’t get fucked up… often. I didn’t scare my kid or cheat on my husband or lose the dog or anything I could have done. It was going to take me simply AGES to kill myself.

    Just like it did my Dad.

    I was on that ledge because I’d thrown my pills up there at 8:00 AM, knowing I wasn’t allowed another one until 2:00PM when my husband would be gone and I could get the stepladder without having to explain why. Unfortunately, by 11:30, shit was grim. This was five months ago.

    About five months ago, I got sober. Sorry. I’ve been busy not drinking or taking pills. Yes. NORMAL people say, “How much effort can it take to NOT do something? There’s lots of things I don’t do. Possibly among them drinking and taking pills. I still have room to write my goddamn blog.” Yeah. Well. You’re probably not an alcoholic then, are ya, smarty pants? I have it on good authority that some day it will not take every fiber of my being to not do something that’s obviously a really fucking bad idea in the first place. But in the mean time, I’m a little busy, okay?

    And, no. You probably didn’t know. Not all of us need to crash the car into the brick wall to know it’s in the road. I’m praying I’m one who switched paths before the wreckage included extensive body work on the vehicle I call my life.

    I’ll keep you posted. Maybe. Or maybe not. Fuck it, more ice cream.

  4. when my feminism met my fat

    June 20, 2014 by kim

    Oh yeah. This is gonna haunt me. I’ve written some pretty damn dumb blog posts, but this is exposing my nutsack and inviting the toe of your stylish pump to meet it with fervor. I’ve admitted to some disastrous things, (oh, go look them up yourself, I’m not gonna spoon feed you), but this takes the proverbial cake. That I eat too much of. Which is why…

    I just had plastic surgery. Liposuction, to be exact. Yep. Sure as fuck did. And it may be the painkillers talking, but I’m kind of excited to admit this. Like holding my nose and squeezing my eyes closed before the shitstorm. The only thing I feel bad about is that I don’t feel ashamed. I really should, and maybe some of the aforementioned shitstorm will hit home and I’ll finally be able to hang my head in shame for paying money that could have gone to saving the lives of orphans or kittens or veterans or…. okay, maybe I feel a little ashamed. But not a lot.

    Here’s why this admission is gonna fuck me, no dinner, no lube. I am trying to embrace being a feminist and I spent money on a thing that a good feminist probably shouldn’t have. A good feminist loves her body the way it is. A good feminist knows that damaging herself, even under the care of a surgeon, sends the message that what I am isn’t good enough. A good feminist scoffs at the idea of perpetuating an unrealistic image and subscribing to words like “feminine” and “ideal” and “beauty”. A good feminist MIGHT even not give a fuck if she’s getting older and rather sees the signs of aging as marks of distinction and badges of honor.

    I, on the other hand, just had a birthday. Oh fuck you hard and fast, forty-five. I am NOT going gently into that night.

    I didn’t get liposuction because I lost a role to Krista Allen. I mean, I did, but that’s totally apples and oranges. I’m not dumb enough to think, “Well a few inches off the waist and I’ll TOTALLY be next on George Clooney’s list of exes.” There is pretty and there is “Hollywood pretty.” I was not trying to catapult myself out of the “pretty” category and invade the domain currently reigned over by Angelina Jolie. No. Stop. Shut up and PLEASE don’t oh-but-you-are-as-pretty me, I am not going to meet Hugh Hefner and make him start calling me Miss April. That’s “Hollywood pretty.”

    I’m pretty. But when I stopped waving good-bye to my daughter, my upper arm didn’t get the message until I had physically dropped it and squeezed it to my abdomen. I spent probably ten minutes a day poking the pocket of fat just below my navel and trying to guess if my finger went deeper than it had the day before. I was okay with my body, but some extraneous and unnecessary padding made me very sad.

    I did try other methods. For the last three years I’ve been doing obscene things called “Pilates” on a strange device called a “reformer” which probably has a patent held by Torquemada. I went on walks until the dogs feigned paralysis. I scrutinized the ingredient list of every thing going into my grocery cart like I was looking for proof I was owed a castle in Sweden. I occasionally went days drinking only a special elixir that magically tasted exactly the same going down as it did coming back up. I had stringent requirements and a point system to earn a beer or a cupcake. And still my daughter thought it was fun to jiggle my hip and watch the noticeable wave formations travel across my belly.

    Everyone in the world probably thinks I’m insane. The men whose opinions matter to me all tell me I’m gorgeous and my husband proves it with vigor at the drop of my pants. My arms and tummy were honestly JUST FINE. But I went and got them sucked into a jar. (I declined when the nurse asked, “That’s actually a lot, do you want to take a picture of it?”)

    Today I am seeping and wearing the world’s tightest body suit. I don’t hurt at all actually, so I was kinda lying about the painkillers. I took one. Felt fine before, felt fine after, figure they gave me the pansy-ass stuff on purpose and that’s probably for the best. (See previous stupid admissions in much earlier posts.) But I briefly got to look at myself in the mirror when rinsing out the girdle I will be wearing for the next two weeks.

    I still don’t look like I could be called in for any character with “MILF” in the description. I’m still pretty. My arms and my abs are still just fine. But I started to cry. I wanted something stupid and silly and irrational and vain and decadent and vapid and superficial. And I let myself have it. And I was happy because of that.

    Maybe good feminists do what they want with their bodies. Maybe good feminists decide for themselves what would make them feel good. Or maybe I’d rather be happy than any label, even one I aspire to. It’s a thought.

    I’ll keep you posted.

  5. I blame the brothers grimm

    June 12, 2014 by kim

    It’s Summer Break and my husband took the child bowling. This hinged on the agreement that I would write while he was gone. I think he thought giving me time and focus would mean another chapter would finally appear in the book I’m “writing” aka staring at and inventing new swear words to describe the ensuing emotional reaction, (I am SO fuckipated at this very moment, you have no idea. It’s like being mentally constipated and fucked at the same time. Good word. You’re welcome,) so this seems like a nice compromise.

    I heard someone the other day say he was married to, “Jack from Jack and the Beanstalk,” How so? I inquired? Whimsical? A dreamer ? Someone who can climb large objects and slay monsters? “No. He goes out with our final remaining cow and comes home, full of pride and says, ‘Look! Magic beans! It’s all gonna be okay now!’”

    This made me think. A lot of humanity’s flaws can be traced back to some simple things we take for granted in fairy tales. Yes, yes, yes, a lot of female archetypes suck royal ass, but I’m talking about truths that are not gender-specific. Some things that no one ever said to some mythological beings that perhaps should have been spoken a long time ago. Things like: If your son is old enough to go to the market with your last commodity and you expect him to barter, why the fuck don’t you expect him to get a damn job? The boy clearly has some skills, make him stop playing video games and go earn some money!

    I don’t blame Jack, since he’s clearly been profoundly sheltered. I mean, only THREE magic beans? That cow is gonna last somebody a whole winter! He’s not the brightest bulb in the box. Mom, this one rests squarely on your head. Give him specific directions, (“Don’t settle for less than a dozen goddamn magic beans!”), and then raise the bar! Push him! You can’t shield your child from the world and then freak out when he becomes a resident of the world in his head.

    Speaking of shielding your children… Yo, Red Riding Hood’s Mom. What the fuck? You live next to a fucking forrest. A FORREST! I live in one of the biggest metropolises on the planet, a sprawling urban wasteland, yet because of our proximity to a very large park, my kid knows what a goddamn coyote LOOKS LIKE. She knows if one approaches her, she does not say, “Why to my gramma’s house, as a matter of fact,” she waves her arms and yells, “BACK OFF! BACK OFF!” (Which she charmingly practices every time we go for a walk. With her odd speech characteristics, everyone we encounter wonders how such a cute little six-year old became so angry that she’s screaming, “FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF!” on what would otherwise be a lovely afternoon. So there’s another parenting prize I take home.) If you live near a potential threat, it is not helping your kid by pretending it doesn’t exist. She will encounter it at some point. Give her tiny little manageable bites of awareness and teach her the tools and skills for dealing with it. That way she can carry her own fucking axe and granny might get some of those fresh-baked goodies rather than donating her wardrobe to a cross-dressing lupine.

    Also, you know, I’ve heard people never talk any more. I don’t think they ever did. I mean, all the spying in fairy tales? The princesses shoes are warn through every morning! Oh, no! So Mr.Cleverdick says, “I know! I’ll sneak in and spy on them in their bedroom!” AND DAD GIVES HIS CONSENT! Alright, I’m sorry, there are so many things wrong here my head just blew up, but my ORIGINAL point was…. why not ask? I think Shakespeare actually got it right in HAMLET. If you lurk behind curtains listening for secrets, you are gonna get stabbed. Nobody takes the simple option of involving the other person. I blame this particular foible of humanity for everything from recording phone conversations to nanny-cams to the eleventh incarnation of CSI. If you want some information, you can either go through extraordinary and morally questionable gymnastics to get it all by yourself, OR YOU COULD ASK.

    “Hey! What’s up with your shoes, girls? Why are they worn out every morning?”
    “Oh, Dad, so glad you asked. There’s a spell on us and we turn into swans every night and go dancing.”
    “Wow. I had no idea. Are you happy?”
    “Very. Last night deadmau5 was spinning. Unbelievable.”
    “Okay, then. Just be safe.”
    “We will. Love you, Daddy!”

    This is also true for Rapunzel’s parents, by the way. If your wife has a pregnancy craving for something your next door neighbor is growing, you could sneak into her yard and steal it, OR you could nicely knock on the lady’s front door and show her the respect of ASKING. I did this with my neighbor’s kumquats. It’s very liberating and civic-minded, plus you don’t have anyone demand your daughter as payment. As much as I offered.

    Think of the agony an entire kingdom could have been spared if ANYONE had talked in SLEEPING BEAUTY. Tell the fairy why she wasn’t invited. Let her make amends. Tell your child she’s probably gonna have a short life. Let her live it to the fullest. Tell the prince necrophilia is frowned upon. Let him get some therapy.

    I promised I’m not going to delve into the topic of feminine ideals, and I shan’t, but for the love of fairy dust, listen to the advice of THIS Disney heroine:imgres

    You gotta have a goddamn conversation.

    Finally, the blatant racism of fairy-tales galls me. I’ve already mentioned the fact that wolves are okay to kill, even when they’re just doin’ their wolfy thing. Goldilocks was never once reprimanded for what was essentially a B and E only since they were bears and she was a blond, white girl, welllllll guess they should have known better than to wake her sleepy ass up. After she ate their food and wrecked their furniture. It’s always assumed the humans are in the right and the differently-abled or sized are in the wrong, even when the human has already had their life saved by a dwarf or giants are just sitting around being big. You want the dragon’s gold? Sure! By all means, kill him and take it! Not cool. Back up, humanity, and check your fucking privilege.

    So today’s idea is as follows: If you find yourself doing something kind of dickish only because it’s dictated by society, stop and decipher what part of society may have started the habit. If it can be traced back to some shitassery and has just been perpetuated ever since because that’s the way we do things, start a new trend! Write your own story! Make up your own cuss words! I sure as hell am. Because I am cuntabulous!

  6. Name and Shame

    May 29, 2014 by kim

    Trigger warning: rapey rapey subject

    I’ve been spending my allotted writing time recently working on a different project, so I’ve really just been communicating with the world through Twitter. However, the recent hashtag YesAllWomen inspired some interactions I feel compelled to comment upon, and one hundred and forty characters ain’t cutting it.

    A long time ago I was raped. So. Yeah. Then, yesterday, I SAID I was raped and received an abundance of lovely support. I also received some venom and some judgment which I found interesting. Now, I don’t think for one minute I will change anyone’s mind about how they react to such a personal and extreme incident, and I’m not going to address the trolls. But it does seem that when I put my own experiences into words and toss them in a bottle to be chucked into the Interwebz Ocean, some good comes of it. I feel better, for one, and sometimes people express that they feel better too. So I would like to do a little further musing on the subject matter, specifically why I do not name my attacker, as the phrase goes.

    I was nineteen and a virgin. He was the alpha male student in the department. The teachers deferred to him, other students idolized him, and I made out with him because that’s what the beta females do. It’s how I was programmed. My own sexual education consisted of, “Don’t do it,” so I was left to trust my own feelings of emotional neediness and burgeoning attraction to figure out my way through that jungle.

    The short version is, he made me spaghetti, he got drunk, he locked the door, I said I wanted to go, he alternated between, “It’s okay, I just wanna hold you,” and, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO ME? WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?” then I remember him asking me if I came and taking a shower. There was a bloody handprint on my neck and I’m not sure whose it was, but I thought I wish they had squeezed. Then he drove me home.

    Here’s the first thing… he actually thought he was in the right. His ego and warped view of entitlement told him if a woman was in his room and he had an erection, she OWED him a fuck. This was not some savage maniac who was hiding in a bush, this was someone who had always defined “right” and was at the point in his life where, if he wanted it, it was by definition the right thing to have. He deserved it. And since I too had learned that male energy defined what is well and proper, I DID NOT KNOW I HAD BEEN RAPED. Yes, this is possible. This is common, even. So it wasn’t until a year later, when I was in therapy for the weird habit I had of vomiting violently whenever I slept around a male, (college dorms, remember, I wasn’t fucking anybody, just going to sleep while the roommate was doing homework with a lab partner), that the therapist asked me about my sexual history and I said I didn’t have one. Well, there was that one time….

    So then I named. I spoke up. I said something to my teacher. He told me he was sure the guy was very sorry. I said something to the girl he was hanging out with. She said I was jealous. I said something to my doctor. He said a lot of girls are confused about their first time.

    Sense a pattern?

    Most rapists are not obvious “bad guys”. You’d probably even like most of them. In fact, you probably know one and DO like him.

    Rapists can rape because they are experts at taking another’s power. People WANT to side with the person who has the power. It’s in our genetic code. This is why there are so many women decrying feminism and so many men mocking women who have been abused. The reaction at that time was for one of his friends to finally ask me to stop talking about it because it was upsetting everybody. (This friend of his recently contacted me to see if we could go for coffee. Clearly, his experience and mine were vastly different.)

    A few women sidled up to me in the darkness of the theater and said they believed me because it had happened to them too, or, worse, said they wished they had believed me when they had the chance. But mostly I was told resoundingly to shut up and take care of everybody’s feelings because I was clearly broken and deranged. It’s not people’s fault they respond this way. They are scared, too. They don’t want it to be true and they REALLY don’t want to have to stand up against the powerful, popular dude who is the clear winner of the fight, so please just la la la la la I can’t hear you stop being hurt.

    So I shut up and it took me seven years to figure out how to have an orgasm.

    About fifteen years ago, this particular sociopath came across my loose social circle. One of my best friends who had also suffered at his hands joined me in putting up a simple, “Guys, he is some bad fucking news,” and were met with…. get ready for it…. DISBELIEF! Oh he’s so charming! So talented! So lovely! How can you say that?

    So we shut up. Again. (Then he stole a bunch of money and left town. It’s small comfort to have people apologize after the fact, but a comfort nevertheless.)

    Now he’s a very successful person working in an arena I have also been in. He gets awards! He teaches at colleges and apparently fucks the students! He has a kid! He is universally applauded! Why don’t I name him?

    Because I don’t fucking want to. AND THAT’S A GOOD ENOUGH REASON! The thought makes me feel ashamed and scared. Because it sure as fuck wouldn’t look like all the people demanding his identity and thinking he’d suddenly be anathema. It would look like it always did. A few people would speak up and agree with me, probably overly dramatic women with a chip on their shoulder, and I’d be asked to shut the fuck up because at this point it’s libel since I never filed charges.

    Being raped is experiencing your body being used as an object for another human. Your needs are pulverized under that person’s will. If I feel compelled to open this wound up, not for my OWN healing, but to ostensibly help another person, to prioritize THEIR assumed needs…. how is that not perpetuating the problem? Now, if it would make me feel free and strong and right and good and loud…. then fuck yes! Name and shame!

    But if naming results in more shame for me, I think I’m allowed to take care of myself.

  7. for shame, give a guy a break

    October 7, 2013 by kim

    Let’s start with a disclaimer, shall we? Let’s shall!

    I am about to grotesquely generalize. Specifically I will be generalizing men, but I’ll probably lump a few of us xx-chromosomes in there for good measure. If you are an exception to my blatant laziness and refusal to do any form of fact-based reporting to support my opinions, you are actually welcome to leave a message. I’d like it to be kind, that makes it easier to learn from, but please note I am aware and saying right up front that when I say, “guys,” I mean, “The guys to whom this applies.” If it does not apply to you, well then good on ya. Also, let me go on record as stating my intention is not to label or judge men. My intention is to impart a little lesson that made MY life easier when dealing with men, so hopefully it might do the same for my sisters.

    There. Hope the lawyers amongst you are satisfied.


    This is astounding to me. I really thought we cornered the market on “issues”. I mean, come on. We have PMS, for fuck’s sake! It’s, like, practically sanctioned to be irrationally moody and hyper-emotional at least once a month. We are the sensitive sex. The emotional ones. We are the soft, squishy sponges who soak up feelings like grape juice on the counter and leak them out all over the porcelain sink of life. Dudes? If you can’t eat it or fuck it, why do they care?

    Uh… yeah. Apparently that’s an inappropriate assumption. They have feelings!!!!!

    My “thing” is abandonment. It paralyzes me. Aside from harming my child, the worst thing you can do to me is walk away during a fight. When I feel abandoned I cease being able to function in a rational manner and become a three-year old child lost in the woods, watching the sun go down and waiting for the wolves to come get me. I KNOW it doesn’t make sense. I am, by all accounts, perfectly capable of keeping myself sustained and breathing. Chances are I probably won’t die because my boyfriend won’t pick up the phone for three days. But it sure as hell feels like it.

    A lot of women have abandonment as a “thing”. It’s pretty common, actually. And, because dudes don’t seem to, we neglect to realize that there might be another thing that’s their “thing”.

    A dear friend of mine who identified as a lesbian for her whole life found herself in love with a man. (YOU ARE NOT WELCOME TO COMMENT ON THIS. Your own personal reaction to that statement is of no interest to me whatsoever. I support this individual, I love this individual, and I will not see her life used to further an agenda on either side of the fence.) They were experiencing some difficulty at one point, and we talked about it.

    “I don’t know why he’s so angry,” she said. “It’s my problem.”
    I answered, “Yeah, but he can’t fix it.”
    “So? He doesn’t have to fix it. But he told me I shouldn’t even be upset about it.”
    “Because he can’t fix it.”
    “He’s mad because he can’t DO anything,” I explained.
    “Well, he could listen,” she offered.
    “Honey, he’s a man. This is what they do. If their woman has a problem, it’s their job to fix it. If they can’t, then the fucking problem should not exist any more.”
    “Wow. Lesbians just ‘process’ everything. Not much gets done, but at least somebody listens to me.”

    So, obviously, the person having the experience here is the woman. She has needs for validation and affirmation that simply listening would provide. He’s just being a neanderthal.

    Or… Or…. OR… he’s experiencing something too!

    One of my two best friends on this planet is married to a man who is wise and wonderful and works as a facilitator for men’s group therapy. I was talking, (ie “venting”) about someone once and he said, “Oh. He has shame issues.” That stopped me dead in my tracks.

    “Shame. It’s very common for men. It’s paralyzing for a lot of us.”

    I’ve always assumed guys who become idiots when they are mocked or make mistakes or can’t find a solution to a problem are just not trying to keep their big-boy pants on hard enough. I mean, I get shamed a dozen times a day. I have various reactions to it, but none of them constitute a radioactive meltdown. My friend’s husband continued.

    “Men react to shame the same way a lot of women react to abandonment.”

    Oh well fuck.

    I remember discussing with one of my favorite male recovering alcoholics about men’s fear of women. His hypothesis was that male aggression stemmed from fear. I couldn’t imagine what they had to fear from us, but he said, “Failure.” That’s shame right there, that is.

    The same way we, as little girls, (and often older girls), believe that if he REALLY loves us, he’d just know…. guess what? They think so too! Imagine how fucking frustrating that could be, knowing that it’s actually your JOB to have a solution but you’re a day late and you’ve misplaced the manual that was written in Mandarin anyway and oh by the way it calls for AAA batteries and you only have C. Is someone you love sad? That means one thing and one thing only: YOU ARE A GIANT FUCK UP OF A FAILURE AND NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE YOU!

    Wow. That sucks.

    So, ladies, just for today, let’s give our guys some breaks. Instead of seeing an insensitive boor or an angry behemoth, (assuming you are safe. This is talking about just fiddly day-to-day details here, not spousal abuse. That demands help. Get it.) see a little boy standing on the school yard with a stain on his pants trying not to cry as everyone points and laughs at him. Tell him he’s doing a good job. Tell him you appreciate and admire his strength and that, if there WAS a solution, you know he’d be able to find it in a heartbeat. And, for God’s sake, don’t chastise him for not being someone else if you want him to function. Especially if you love him.

    Because, see, when I try that…. the guy who needed to walk away from me always comes back.

  8. i typed this in my trailer. jus’ sayin’.

    October 3, 2013 by kim

    Okay, I’m gonna kinda talk about what I do and how I feel about it here for a little bit. I have to get it out of my system, feel free to skip this and spend your allotted Rhodeside time looking at or something. I would if I had the choice, but this crap is gnawing at my brain. So… consider yourself warned that actor whining is about to engage. Some actor good stuff will be included. But it’s actor, which is meh. And it’s me. Meh. (Get me, I’m an ambulance! Me meh me meh me meh.)

    My heart broke a couple of weeks ago. Yes, it’s probably my ego, but it sure felt like my heart at the time. And still does. Here’s what happened…

    My manager received a phone call from an Important Studio about me. They said they were making a Big Movie and I was perfect for one of the roles and would I come do a table read for it? (For those not so in the know, a table read is where you READ the script around a TABLE. Hollywood: land of subtlety and insinuation.) I crapped myself. This was a Big Deal. I assumed it was a tiny little role, because that’s how life works. I don’t go from middle-aged-sort-of-employed-who-is-she-I-think-I saw-her-in-something-no-that-was-that-other-gal actress to BLOCKBUSTER STAR because somebody likes my reel. Nobody does, let me tell you, no matter what the stories would have you think. So I thought I’d get to read, like, Optimistic Teacher or maybe PTA Mom, which would have been, truly, fucking awesome right there. This was a Big Deal.

    However, I got the script… it was a huge role. I mean a BIG BIG FUCKING HOLY SHIT DEAL. And they were right. I was PERFECT for it. It was my style of humor, in my sweet spot of quirky cheerfulness meets deadly rage, and age-appropriate. I crapped myself again, then tried to rein it in. I tried not to attach too much to it. I tried to keep it in perspective. I tried to tell myself that nothing is guaranteed and no promises were made so that I would be prepared if nothing came of it.

    I was not prepared for what actually happened.

    They never even introduced us. I was in a room full of people, we read the script and when we had finished, an executive said, “That’s a lot tighter. I think the actors are really gonna like it now.” As I optimistically stood there hoping there was a Round Two or something, I was told I could have a piece of pizza. I left and sobbed in my car. Then I went to an audition for Best Buy, because clearly a Big Star was already cast in the role and actors of my caliber and status would just be silly to think they were there for any purpose besides not sounding like the writer’s assistants reading the dialogue for the eightieth time.

    My manager said, when I relayed the story to him, that he was told I’d be “considered” for the role and anyway it was okay because I got in a room with those Important Studio People. I said, “Why? They have no clue who I am!” To prove it, I phoned in an anonymous tip that Kim Rhodes had planted a bomb in their lobby and they said, “Oh my God!!! Who is Kim Rhodes and how did she get in?” (No, I didn’t really, because that would be criminally negligent. And, technically, saying, “Do we want some unknown or Kristin Wig?” IS considering me.) But my point was, I believe, sound and logical. It was not a Great Opportunity even if they HAD loved me, because nobody ever said my name out loud.

    My career is in the toilet. In fact, let’s type that honestly, shall we? My “career” is in the toilet. And it breaks my heart.

    I had another audition recently where the casting person did not feel I was young enough for a role, but was bullied into seeing me anyway. I was somehow, during the course of our meeting, personally held liable for the fact that the ASPCA was doing nothing about the neighborhood cats shitting on this person’s roses. Yes, I cried in my car again.

    It’s not personal. Right? Well, I’ve said before that it’s not personal TO THEM. My fucking job is to MAKE it personal. I take words on paper and make them human. So that other humans can hear and feel and identify. To do that, I have to open myself up to getting kicked in the teeth and there has been a lot of dental soccer going on recently.

    My initial response was to look at houses in Portland, because, when it comes right down to it, I’d just like to have four hours every day to write fairy tales for grown-ups. I really do. The material that I get in L.A. is so hard to get into and so hard to get hired for and, once I have been hired against all odds, it’s miserable to work on because it usually sucks. “Make it funny, Kim!” “Make it emotional, Kim!” “Make it exciting, Kim!” NO, MOTHERFUCKERS, YOU MAKE IT GOOD! (For the record, the Big Movie was really really good. I’d probably be willing to see it in theaters if it didn’t make me want to heave-cry and rend my hair over my popcorn.)

    After my initial phase of screaming, “Run awaaaaaaaay!” like I was reenacting scenes from “The Holy Grail”, I moved on to, “Fine. I’m taking my ball and going home.” I’ll just quit. A decree went down from Caesar that all the Christians were being fed to the lions. Thumbs down to everything, henceforth. Yay, sirrah!

    Then I came to Vancouver to work on “Supernatural”.

    Many people on Twitter wonder why they never see selfies of me with the guys. Why I don’t share more anecdotes or tell amusing tales about what goes on here? I would like to tell you why.

    Did you know that there are people who still believe a photograph steals a part of a human’s soul. It kinda does when you’re an actor. No, not when we are at conventions and it’s why we are there, or even if we are in the mall and I offer to take one with your kid. That’s a wonderful and easy thing that gives me joy to bring you joy.

    But when I work, I am naked. I don the clothing of my character through the trial and error of rehearsal. Sometimes I bend over and seams rip loose in risque places. Sometimes I get it on backward. It takes a lot of people to render the product finished, and when I am on set, I am vulnerable because, yes, I take this personally. I assume others do too. Sure, by now I’m betting no one would begrudge me a quick snapshot, but that’s not the point.

    We are not immune to judgement. And every time an anonymous voice sprays vitriol in our direction, it leaves a little tiny spot of burn. Usually that heals in seconds, but those are still a few seconds of ouchie. So I don’t offer targets and the feeling of being vulnerable and safe immediately disappears when a camera comes out. It just inherently represents, “You suck!” or, “That reminds me, you really make me feel like crap when you say the word ‘suffering’ all the damn time!” A camera takes a private moment and hands it over to the world for scrutiny. And while the world might love it, the moment changes and I feel that all too… personally.

    What little tiny thing I can do to keep this a comfortable place for them up here means the world to me. Because to me, this feels like home. I am safe here. I am valued and appreciated and challenged and stretched and asked to make a contribution that is unique and vital. In return, I take my time here as an invitation to stay with a dear friend. I would never walk into a friend’s house, change their music, and start throwing pictures of their bedroom up on Facebook.

    Others may, and I swear I do not judge them. It is only because of my unique and personal damage from, uh, relationship with the business that makes me feel this way. But I wanted to explain why I don’t share more of my beloved little oasis up here. And thank it publicly for being the reason I haven’t put a down payment on a charming two-bedroom in the Alberta district.

    I’m still determined to be more selective in what I put my effort, energy and self into. I have still resolved to say no when I mean no. But my heart has recovered enough so I can acknowledge that is it at least FEASIBLE that I can still be happy being an actor. And thank you for understanding why I do what I do to help these other amazing actors stay happy in their space.

  9. in which kim uses the word “sucks” too much

    September 13, 2013 by kim

    You know, I feel I’ve addressed this subject before. I know I have, in fact. But I have a new and exciting obsession with an aspect of it and I’m currently stuck in an airplane and all my lines are memorized and I can’t recline my seat because I’m in the very last row and the trip is too short to take an ambien and I’ve eaten an imprudent amount of tomatoes in the last two days anyway so I’m gonna talk about pain.

    But not PAIN pain. More like our reaction to it. And I’m not planning on bitching, so shut your trap. No, actually I am. I totes take that back. Sorry.

    Here’s the script: (I’m too lazy to give everyone names. Assume they are standing in a line.)

    Person 1: I’m really in a rush and traffic sucks. I’m just so mad. Grrr.
    Person 2: I have PMS and my kids are sick. Cuh-rayzeee.
    Person 3: My friend is having open heart surgery. I’m really shaken up about it.
    Person 4: My mom just died. I can’t function.
    Person 5: My divorce is final today. I think I’m going to die.
    Person 6: The cancer has spread to my butt. It may fall off.
    Person 7: I want to flip you all off but a shark just bit off my hands. I have nubs!
    Person 8: *vomits razor blades and passes out*

    You know what’s missing from that conversation? Nobody said, “Wow, that sucks.” Not a single goddamn person. And ya know what? All that shit sucks. The only way that conversation could be worse, is if each person was answered by something like this:

    Answer 1: Just breathe.
    Answer 2: Kids are a blessing, though, aren’t they?
    Answer 3: My dad had that! It was horrific. The doctor didn’t know what he was doing and the hospital screwed up his chart so he almost had his corneas removed instead!
    Answer 4: Well she’s at peace now.
    Answer 5: You won’t get a date if you’re thinking about the past.
    Answer 6: Trust God’s will.
    Answer 7: Well you shouldn’t have been playing with them.
    Answer 8: Don’t be so dramatic.

    Oh. Helpful words. Nothing spreads healing like people who want so badly for pain to go away for THEIR sake that they do what they can to eradicate it like cockroaches. Still nobody said, “Wow, that sucks.” Nobody is okay just being in a moment, knowing it hurts, and knowing it will pass.

    “Wow, that sucks,” could conceivably save the world. For two reasons, that I illustrated vaguely above but I got so amused by managing to work the word “nubs” into a post, they may need some clarification.

    The first is people’s tendency to treat their pain like a competition. Where do we learn we have to EARN the right to hurt? Being in a rush and traffic sucking sucks! It doesn’t suck any less because somebody has cancer! You don’t lose the game if you acknowledge someone else has some sucky stuff too. I promise you that. Just because I have a paper cut and you have a visible femur doesn’t mean my paper cut doesn’t hurt. It means you get the fucking ambulance, yes, but I still get a goddamn bandaid, which is what a paper cut calls for. I think if everybody just let their pain be painful instead of needing it stamped with approval, we’d have a lot more ability to let others’ pain be painful too. And respond with, “Wow, that sucks,” rather than, “ACES! I’M HOLDING ACES! READ ‘EM AND WEEP, BABY! Actually, don’t weep, I’m the one who gets to cry, fuck off.”

    Then, once we are okay with people hurting, we can stop trying to fix it. “Kim! What a bitch! Who can stand by and watch someone they love be in pain! You cold, callused, cunt!” Come on. I’m talking about pain you can’t actually DO anything about. I’m talking about that feeling of watching helplessly because you ARE helpless and so you become invested in making the person STOP HURTING ANY WAY POSSIBLE. Generally in a way that means they don’t actually have their experience. Except they are. So…. no help. Stop telling people to stop feeling what they are feeling. And don’t couch it in A Teachable Moment or Staying Positive or Keeping Perspective or Eyes on the Prize or whatever. Stop and try this: “Wow, that sucks.” Then go from there. Their reactions are theirs. Let them have ‘em.

    You know who’s really good at this? People who are in the middle of some seriously sucky shit. I sat in chemotherapy with my friend, Kevin, who was outraged I was unemployed. HE WAS DYING! But he knew the power of a good, “Wow. That well and truly sucks.” One of the most beautiful women on the planet has a three month old baby she has not been able to pick up yet because of suckiness that almost killed her. I told her in detail about my dad, (she asked). Near tears, she said… sing along with me, “Wow, that sucks.” People who have the winning lottery tickets of agony seem to be the ones who share kindness and acceptance.

    Maybe that’s why, on a daily basis, perfectly normal people, people who, if asked if they have a cruel or sadistic streak would have to get a dictionary, these people attempt to cause pain. Not pain like kicking a puppy or beating a child. Those aren’t the normal people and their needs are deep and broken. I’m talking people who send me emails about eight-year old children being raped to death with comments like, “Have you seen this?” Or, ya know, his friends who point out an ex-girlfriend is talking about him in her blog, never accounting for literary license or the fact that OF COURSE she’s going to bitch, it’s a blog, and what do you think she’s going to comment on the fact that they spent nearly a quarter of their lives together and she slammed so many rough edges into him they blunted to smooth the way she moves through life now? Maybe they’re all causing a little pain because THEY actually are craving a, “Wow, that sucks.”

    So. That’s my pitch. We all try it. And if you actually think this is full of shit and it offends you and you want to throw a pineapple at my head but you can’t because I’m on an airplane, I fully support you sharing that with me. I will nod and say, “Wow. That sucks.”

  10. Bunny Anger Management

    September 11, 2013 by kim

    My brain is clearly cleaning house. It does so often and without my permission, or even awareness. My only clue is that all of a sudden I will be overwhelmed with intense and urgent emotions that have nothing to do with, well, with reality. It’s like my brain does this:


    Usually I get scared. I have crippling attacks that everything is not okay and I will die a slow, agonizing death after watching the hideous suffering of everyone I love because of some dumb shit move I made. Or didn’t make. Now… that is definitely an element of my experience these days, but it’s not what I want to talk about. I got it covered. It sucks, I usually identify what’s going on, I make it right-sized, and go on with my life. If nothing else, I put off making life-changing decisions for at least a month, especially when the decision I’m pretty sold on making involves giving everything I own to charity and moving to Namibia to fight poachers and let my kid be naked as much as she fuckin’ wants.

    THIS time there’s a new somthin’ somethin’ that’s being unearthed. Now, because this is open to the public and I’m not pursuing revenge, but rather clarity, I am going to change most of facts that I mention. But hopefully you can follow.

    The other day I got pissed about something that happened six years ago. I mean, I JUST got pissed. See, I used to work on a television show, (that part is true), and I have an interest in woodworking, let’s say, (not true). The guy who made furniture on the show, let’s say, (this part is really a lie, there is no such person on a set who just makes furniture), had some trouble with one of the other actors and nearly lost his job. I stepped up and said, “Fine, let him only make furniture for ME then, but let him keep his job.” He kept his job and was very grateful. Then he gave that very same actor a big, expensive miter saw. The actor not only didn’t use the miter saw, but didn’t even WANT the miter saw. I, however, adored it and finally could afford to buy my very own miter saw just the other day when I got mad. I was overwhelmed with rage that I never got one for free years ago when I saved this dude’s fucking job and he KNEW I considered woodworking a very passionate hobby and potential alternative career. But noooooo, the actor with the publicist got the miter saw.

    What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? And it’s not the only one. I’m having creepy little tantrums sneak out all over the place and I don’t have boxes for them!

    Clearly I am supposed to throw them out. I mean, even the bunny knows that. But before I can do that, I have to squeeze every last ounce of grumpy goodness out of them. Like my mother going through everything in the vacuum cleaner collection bin before she dumped it, in case there was a diamond or a key or a penny or something. Juuuuuust to make sure it can really get dumped, I guess.

    Because I sure as fuck can’t act on it! I mean, I imagine this conversation:

    JIM: Hello?
    ME: Is this Jim?
    JIM: Yes.
    ME: Hi, it’s Kim.
    ME: Kim Rhodes.
    JIM: (loooooong pause) Oh! Uh… hi. It’s been, what, fifteen years? What’s, uh…. what’s up?
    ME: I know you cheated on me. Two of your friends told me. Separately.
    JIM: Uh…
    ME: Just stop lying, okay?
    JIM: Uh… okay? Sorry? What exactly do you want?
    ME: Nothing, I just got angry yesterday. And you still owe me four thousand dollars for that television I bought you after yours got stolen and you insisted you were going to pay me back.
    JIM: I don’t understand. You want money? Is this being recorded? Am I on someone’s television show? What’s going on?
    JIM: I just remembered something my wife wanted me to do today. Not talk to crazy people. I don’t even know how this phone still had a charge, it was shoved in my sock drawer. Take care and good luck finding a therapist.

    That would not do anyone any good. Except maybe you, dear readers, because it would be a hilarious reminder that I am, indeed, crazier than you are.

    These are what My People call “Resentments”. Apparently the fact that they are coming up is GOOD. It means I’m healing and ready to look at them. Some resentments aren’t buried too deeply. Doesn’t take an archeologist to discover that I’m still pretty pissy about my Dad mishandling my Mom’s medication because he was too drunk to understand English and accidentally killing her. Oooopsie. (For those who don’t know the story, she was dying anyway. Probably within days. And he suffered her loss more than any of us so ha ha, joke was on him.) And, as that little interlude pointed out, resentments are poison and make a person feel, say, and do some really ugly shit. So it’s a good idea to pull them out, put them in the sun, and let them shrivel like tomatoes, turning from acidic and slimy to sweet and wrinkled.

    However, My People advocate looking at, not just the incident, but what MY part was in it. I don’t know if that sounds groovy right now. Sometimes the only part I had was, honestly, just being there. But sometimes my part is a lot fucking bigger. Like retaining a sense that I am owed something. Or hanging on to a score card because it gives me some weird sense of power. Or like not ASKING for help because I’m too damn proud so what’s the deal with all the frowny faces around not getting help?

    So…. yeah. My brain is doing some good work these days. I just think there are ways it could let me know besides dumping a paw full of pee-scented sand on my head. A memo would be nice.