Addendum to the Jobs Blow, I mean Blog

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I Had a Dream- About Jobs.

That Hickenlooper, always stealing my ideas.  First the brewpub, now this.  Two days after he announces his run for President, he goes live with "his" idea to legalize prostitution.  It was a bold, and risky move, to be sure.  No guarantee that even his fervent supporters would go for it.  They're middle-of-the-road Democrats, not Polyamorous fire-juggling circus people who just got back from Burning Man.  But the thing is, he stole it from me.   Yep, back in 2011 I had a dream about Denver's new Mayor legalizing blowjobs, wrote a blog about it, got a lot of theoretical support for the idea and then... Mayor Handjob, I mean Hancock got elected and well we all know what happened.   Since then, I've been educated about sex-workers' rights and why all of this should be legalized in the first place but my point is-  ME.  I was first.

So what was this earth-shaking dream?
Well, it's about jobs, America. Bottom line.
I dreamt that upon returning to Denver after a long trip overseas, and the mayoral election had happened about a month before. I had heard that a woman was elected for the first time and that she was very liberal and innovative, but that's all I'd heard. Walking from my flight's gate to baggage claim, I noticed that the airport looked different. Some of the newsstand and toiletry shops had been replaced, and the shoe-shine booths now had curtains or cubicle-like walls around them. Except there was no shoe-shining going on in those booths. In fact, riding on one of the escalators, I had a perfect bird's eye view of EXACTLY what was going on. Several men were sitting in what looked like barber's chairs, fully clothed from the waist up some with their boxers still on, quite nonchalantly receiving oral sex from scantily clad, attractive young women and men.  A sign on the booth said, "Introductory Special! $20!"
In the dream, I went over to the woman who was standing just outside the booth, shouting "Twenty Dollars to Make you Holler!" like a carnival barker, and asked her just what was going on. Not in a prison-warden kind of way, just in a curious and slightly aghast kind of way. She explained very matter-of-factly that as one of her first acts, the new mayor legalized blow-jobs much in the same way that medical marijuana was legalized in Colorado, and new businesses were popping up all over. They were thrilled to get a space at the highly-coveted airport concession, where a steady stream of customers flowed by nearly 24 hours a day. The proprietor pointed to a storefront across the way that was being remodeled as their permanent space. "Once that's finished we can accommodate over 20 customers at a time- but we'll also have these little kiosks scattered around the airport, on every concourse, for those people that are in a hurry." Next door to their space, another storefront was being remodeled, apparently for the same purpose. Next to that was a McDonald's.
"Looks like you already have competition," I remarked to the woman.
"Yeah," she said, "But we're not too worried- they weren't able to get the license for kiosks, and quite frankly, we're better." She smiled. I nodded.
Then in the dream, I was suddenly heading home in a taxi, and along the way, in every strip-mall, historic block and new-lofts-with-retail-below, jobs were being created, and in fact, done. And not just on Colfax.
I gaped. Then I woke up.

And as I said, it took me a few minutes, but I started to realize what a huge economic boom and social cure-all legalized blow-jobs could become. Much in the same way that "medical" marijuana dispensaries have filled every empty, or floundering, commercial space in Colorado and employed thousands of previously unemployable stoners, the BJ biz could employ, rather than incarcerate, thousands of feckless young men and women. In my real, waking life I remember a police officer from District 6 speaking at a neighborhood meeting on the plague of prostitution in our area. He stated quite clearly that most of the "johns" were married, suburban dads looking primarily for oral sex, ostensibly because their wives wouldn't perform that service. Their impound lot was overflowing with Johns' cars because of this, and the jails were overflowing with prostitutes who would be back on the streets, working, within 24 hours of getting arrested. Besides, he said, when they cracked down on street prostitution, the hookers would just go to the massage parlors for "jobs," and when the police cracked down on the massage parlors, the hookers would just go back to the streets. It was like squeezing a balloon, he said.
Because of Denver's somewhat lax prostitution laws, there wasn't much they could do.
At the time we were living half a block off Colfax Avenue, in a lovely little neighborhood between City Park and the main drag, which was used in the summers by prostitutes and their customers. Our alley was a popular place for business. Every morning we would walk out to our car and find used condoms stuck to the asphalt, mere inches from our back gate. We were lucky though. Some of our neighbors would come home and find a couple or two in the act on their front porches. One was even told to "wait a minute" when he politely asked them to leave.
My former husband and I started joking that as the host house, we should get a cut. Maybe leave a locked box nailed to the back fence, with little envelopes for monetary deposits- on the honor system of course- just like the State Parks do?
But seriously. Even though we don't live there anymore, and the worst of the prostitution was over by 2004 (economic downturn, don't ya know), apparently the problem-solving part of my brain has been hard at work on this dilemma ever since.
For those of you who've been living under a rock, or up in Ward, or somewhere other than Colorado since 2008- this legalizing of Medical Marijuana thing has really taken off. Much more so than those of us who voted for it thought it would. Dispensaries now outnumber Starbucks in Denver, and they're showing no signs of slowing down.
Perhaps not surprisingly, it's not that hard to get a medical marijuana prescription. As a result, there are zillions of customers, millions of dispensaries, and billions of dollars being made right here in the Centennial State- in the middle of an otherwise limp economy. One might even call it flaccid.
I've mentioned the previously vacant commercial properties that now house thriving businesses, and the employment opportunities provided by medical marijuana outlets; the retail staff, the growers, the bakers of yummy MJ treats, the modern-day geishas at the ready to make your whole experience more pleasant... but really all that would pale in comparison to legalized blow-jobs.
First off, the regulation would have to be tighter, for obvious health reasons. So, "monitors" for every bj performed would be on duty, ideally a person with some nursing experience, to make sure the blower and the jobber were using every hygienic precaution. I don't have any experience with dental dams, but apparently, they work. Whatever. Once this is legalized, necessity is the mother of invention, and I'm sure the future Bill Gates or Martha Stewart of BJ safety is out there somewhere, waiting to realize his/her moment.
Then there are the service providers themselves. Of course, they'd have to be at least 18 (preferably 21), disease-free, non-smokers, non-meth heads, etc.... so we'd need a whole new regulatory agency, armed with kajillions of doctors and nurses and so forth, to license these people. These young men and women (or old, if you get off on that) would be making decent wages, in a safe environment, rather than working the streets or throwing their lives away in corporate America*. (where they would be doing much the same thing, mind you, except not paid as well, and treated much more poorly.) Last but not least, there would be the cashiers and "teasers," or people working to keep the cash flow of these places up and steady.
I'm not even mentioning the tangential revenue generated by advertising firms, sign-makers, lingerie boutiques, barber-chair retrofitters, and manufacturers of anti-bacterial moist towelettes. The potential benefits to our economy simply cannot be dismissed or spat out as distasteful. Personally, I would not partake and hope my significant other wouldn't either, but I can't imagine a kiosk or storefront could be any grosser than a thousand used condoms stuck to our parking space every day.
In order to revitalize the country and rebuild our former greatness, we need a "Whatever it Takes" mentality, that thinks outside the box.
It's time to get serious about jobs. As Hedwig would say, "mostly the jobs they call 'blow'." Or as I frequently mutter under my breath, "Use your fucking imaginations, people." Put aside that Puritanical facade for 5 minutes and think about all the children going hungry tonight because their mom or dad's job got shipped to Mexico or Asia by some insensitive corporation.
Imagine instead a thriving, local economy that is based on real connections with people and literally throbbing with life. After all, this is about jobs.

Come to Jesus, I am not my possessions

Come to Jesus, I am not my possessions
This is a big CTJ, one that I stubbornly (thank you, German ancestors) and hot-headedly (thank you Black Irish, Basque, and Mohawk ancestors) have resisted and been in some sort of denial about for many years. No wonder it was like passing a pumpkin when it finally came about.
My name is S________, and I have been in a codependent relationship with my house for 10 years now. I realize now that I do not have the power, nor the obligation, to save this house, and that continuing to live in denial in this relationship is unhealthy for both of us. I do not have the funds to fix the foundation, or do the many other repairs that need doing, even if we had a willing/able neighbor to split the cost. I do not and will not have the funds to float said non-willing, non-able neighbor his half of the costs of the repairs. I will not, most likely, win Lotto just in time to save the house and save ourselves (supposedly). I am not and will never be willing to sacrifice every other goal in my life just to save this house. I will no longer contort my life around this 104 year old, 3 story, altered Denver Square, crumbling stucco, house. I have no duty to be the one who saves it from crack-heads, shady real estate investors, bad tenants, and irresponsible-beyond-belief trust-funder dope-heads who choose to spend their money on drugs rather than take care of the house.
A home is supposed to shelter and comfort you, not cause you endless stress and anxiety and borderline homicidal fantasies. (ok, not borderline. They were epic-ly homicidal.) It did shelter us, splendidly, for a few years total. But any relationship should be a give and take, with the balance on the positive side.
Sorry Detroit Street, but this relationship has been toxic for more than half of it.
Sure, when we met and fell in love, things were great. It was our first place together. Our first place that we OWNED. We had legendary parties there. (before the child came along) We stored a lot of crap there for free, ours and that of friends in transit. We took in at least 4 stray cats and 2 stray dogs. Our beautiful daughter was conceived there, and it was her first home until she was 2 years old. She still remembers it fondly though. We have some fantastic memories there, and some pretty awful ones. Which I will not reiterate, because I am trying to forgive everything about it.
Recently we put the house back on the market, and it is most likely going to be a short sale. A week before, I had my friend James come over and do some energetic clearing of the place, and of me (his idea) because as it turns out- um, yeah. It was like 75% my energy that was keeping things stuck, or at an impasse, with the house. The neighbor’s half is going on the foreclosure auction block in a few weeks, but he is still squatting there. James very neutrally explained, “because he’s still here, I’ll have to come back every 10 days or so and re-clear the house.” That’s one hell of a diplomatic way to put it. He also explained forgiveness in a new, totally refreshing way that resonates with me. As he put it, imagine forgiveness as "allowing someone, or something, safe passage THROUGH your place of judgment.” (My emphasis on THROUGH).
Your place of judgment, aka the Ego, aka Lizard-brain, sees things in black and white and is really just trying to protect you from all danger. If something has hurt you once, best not ever go near that thing again. But things frequently get stuck there because of all the hurt, anger, rage and pain that they’ve caused. Your lizard brain just can’t let go of them. And if you can’t let go of something…. Well, things are probably going to stay stuck. So this is how I assuaged my lizard-brain about the house/neighbor situation:
Me and my heart of Loving Kindness: Dear one, if we do not allow this individual and this whole experience to safely pass through our place of judgment, then he will STAY – for who knows how long. And we don’t want that, now do we, dear one?
Lizard brain: Rrrrrrrrrr.
MMHLK: Do you see?
Lizard brain: RRRRRRrrrevenge!!!
MMHLK: No, no, honey. Believe me. Remember what’s happened to all the people who’ve fucked you over in the past? All the sexually-harassing bosses? All the corrupt workplaces? All the stalkers and bad boyfriends? Hmmm?
Lizard Brain: rrrrreeellllll…… they did get what was coming to them. Without us having to do the work. But that was so--- unsatisfying. I didn’t get to punch anyone.
MMHLK: I know, I know. But that’s what those churchy people mean when they refer to the Seven Deadly Sins- God simply says, “Vengeance is mine.” As in, don’t you worry your pretty little heads about it, or pollute your hearts with it. I will smack down, smite, and otherwise seriously fuck with anyone who breaks my laws. What goes around comes around. Have faith. The Universe always comes through, doesn’t it?
Lizard Brain: Yes but- Can’t I just hit like, one person?
MMHLK: When the time really comes for that, I will let you off-leash.
Lizard Brain: Promise?
MMHLK: Promise.

He made me pinky-swear actually. My lizard-brain is a five-year-old boy. I need to treat him as such. So that’s that. It’s no coincidence, I think, that for the first 8 weeks of this year I was helping to clean out, clear out, clean, clear, and otherwise evacuate my parents’ old house in Parker after my brother got them moved to Arizona.
I haven’t spoken to them in 10 years. (see other blogs for more on that) The deal was, my brother would do the front end, and as soon as they were at least 1,000 miles away from me, I could clean up the mess. Besides, I’m a professional cleaner now, so I could approach this with some professional detachment, like any other job. But still, it was a helluva lot more work than I anticipated. At any rate, it’s done. It’s not only on the market, it’s under contract, and we’re just waiting for the banks’ approval. (another short-sale).
And yes, to answer your question, it was very healing for me. Very healing to THROW OUT all the junk that they’d stored, squirreled away and sequestered for decades, rather than make their living relationships a priority. My parents valued their stuff more than their children, and the thing is, their stuff is absolute junk. I am not kidding. There were waste baskets in there dating to 1968, and coated with grime I remember putting on there in my childhood. No exaggeration.
We put all my mom’s old artwork and supplies on the front porch, and on the FREE part of Craig’s list- and it was decimated within a day. Decimated. The nice neighbors very nicely helped clean up the debitage and threw it in trash bins. A truck-load of stuff went to the VVA. I took everything of value in a moving van back to our place. Sold some of it, gave a lot away, put a lot in storage in the garage or basement. Much is going to HazMat disposal.
The whole experience made me pity them more than hate them or fear them. From what I know, pity is just to the right of hatred. It's the same way I feel about Republicans now. So they too, are being allowed safe passage through my place of judgment, at last. It helps that they are 1,000 miles away and otherwise physically, mentally and spiritually completely unable to show up on my front porch someday and somehow force me, at emotional gunpoint, to take responsibility for all their mistakes and failures. I needed to see and feel just how incapable of that they really are though. I'm kinesthetic. That's how I roll.

And now I can roll along much more easily, because I am not my possessions. I am not my parents. All I am is free. And grateful.

The Monkey's Paw

This is a very long, drawn-out excuse for having writer’s block. I blame the Monkey’s Paw. And our stupid, Puritanical society that teaches us it’s evil to wish for anything you want. ....

You know what I’m talking about. That horrid short story by W.W. Jacobs, circa 1902, about a family who receive a magical monkey’s paw from India that is supposed to grant the bearer 3 wishes. The first thing they wish for is money. And guess what? They get it- in the form of a death payment from their son’s company because he’s just been killed in an industrial accident. Second wish: They want their son back alive. Guess what? Sonny-boy crawls up out of the grave, still horribly mutilated and yes, a zombie , and comes a’knockin at the door. They use the third wish to make him go away. ....

Pretty horrific stuff. Perfectly illustrates our Puritanical society’s neuroses about positivity, wishing, wanting, desire, dreams, etc. I seriously don’t fucking get it. And yet I am ensnared by it, like the rest of us. My Mohawk ancestors have virtually the polar opposite views on dreams and desires. They knew that dreams have a lot to do with wish fulfillment, and if your wishes or desires aren’t fulfilled during your waking life, your normally innocuous dreams and desires would fester into something ugly. So to counteract this potential social disruption of unhappy, unfulfilled people charging around the longhouse wreaking passive-aggressive havoc everywhere, they instilled the tradition of speaking their dreams aloud to the people who might be able to grant their unconscious desires. For example, if I dreamt that I was wearing that beautiful shell necklace that my best friend had, I might tell her about this and by social “law” or custom, she’d have to give the necklace to me. At least for awhile, until she dreams that she has it back. Same goes for when you dream about sleeping with someone else’s spouse.

I’m not kidding. To keep social harmony, you’d have to grant your tribe-mate’s wishes if you possibly could. There’s even a few stories involving the granting of non-tribe mate’s wishes, such as the British dude who figured this custom out rather quickly, for a white guy, and told one of the chiefs that he’d dreamed the Mohawk gave all their land to the British. D’oh! I think we had to have a council about that one, but you know what happened in the long run.

Anyhoo. We all know that repressed desires turn into ugly horrible monsters if they’re not expressed in a healthy way, so why the overlay of Puritanical bullshit, here in 2010? Just confirms my belief that my ancestors should have filled those pasty-faced bastards full of arrows before they even got off that damn boat. This is how the bullshit manifests in my poor heed, and perhaps in yours: I have a deep-seated fear of horrible things happening to the people I love if I get what I wish for, so better not even wish for them. And really, better not even think positive, because that could get me into trouble. In a nutshell, I still believe on some level that if I do finish this script, win an Oscar, become rich and famous- or really, achieve my potential in any other way- my husband will die a horrific death. And maybe other people too.

Sick, enit?

That’s what holds me back from going ballz-out. ....

But then, there’s this quote from the BIBLE of all places. Thomas (the former doubter, I believe) was talking to Jesus, and Jesus said to him, “If you bring out what is within you, what you bring out will set you free. If you do not bring out what is within you, what you do not bring out will destroy you.”

Other parts of our culture have different ways of saying this. One I especially like is that your wound, whatever it is, is also the source of your gift- whatever that is. All of your hurts and suffering – they are also the fount of freedom for you. However if you continue in the victim posture, and nurture the festering of that wound rather than the healing of it- or rather, think of it always in a negative fashion rather than a positive one, aka “what could I learn from this?” – then the wound will rot you out from the inside. You know people who’ve chosen that path. Lord knows I do.

What with all this Secret stuff going around and the Law of Attraction entering into the common parlance of our daily lives, these beliefs fly in the face of our unconscious, pasty-faced Puritans who’ve taught us from day one that Providence decides who deserves to get good things and who should be burned at the stake- not us humans. It’s predestination and there’s nothing we can do about it.

We grow up and we all know that’s hogwash, and horribly outdated, and yet unconsciously we all still deeply believe it, and follow it’s unspoken law.

Well, I’ve said this before but it bears repeating. Fuck that noise.

My non-Puritanical, Earth-centered Mohawk/Basque/Black Irish/Stubborn German/Stalwart Scandinavian soul says otherwise. Lately I’ve had a mini-epiphany on how to bring forth this script, or opus or whatever it is so that it doesn’t destroy me: since it feels like I’ve been pregnant with this thing for over 12 years, if I want to give birth to it, nurture it, coax it out of the womb- I have to prepare a nest. A very nice, cozy nest. Something the polar opposite, almost, of what I have now for a workspace. It needs to be organized, but not sterile. Useful, and comfortable. Plenty of space for stretching out my imagination so I don’t feel hemmed in and distracted by clutter. Lots of delicious, inspiring images and quotes up on the walls. Maybe even a tapestry hung up to demarcate the space as a SPECIAL, SACRED, BIRTHING ZONE.

Right now I share this space with a clothes dryer, so this could be complicated. However in the summer we rarely use the thing (clotheslines rock) so….. I’m thinking, candle and incense stand.

If a certain someone {{squeeeak}} comes to nanny for us, we have to rearrange stuff down here and make it livable anyway soooooo…. Perfect excuse.

Aaahhhh, I feel better already, thinking these thoughts instead of dreadful, limiting ones. If I had a monkey’s paw, I’d bend the middle finger so it sticks straight up, and I’d bend all the other fingers down. Then I’d stick that fucker right on top of my computer.

Andale!

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Policy Creationists

It's a new year and I've been cleaning out my email inbox and unsubscribing from a few
things that are either redundant, don't serve me, or piss me off. I was rather surprised
to find this group on that list, as we slouch towards health care reform in this schizophrenic country of ours.
http://fdlaction.firedoglake.com/2009/12/21/10-reasons-to-kill-the-senate-bill/

That's right, my ultra-progressive pinko friends, Fire Dog Lake. I'm done with them, and mostly for the post/email campaign action they sent out right before the Senate version of the Healthcare bill was signed. Maybe it's a combination of lack of time, lack of sleep, bullshit overload, or what fundraisers call "constituent exhaustion" but this thing was the fucking straw that broke this camel's back. After mulling it over a few days,an epiphany came to me in a bubble of coherent thought during my usual early-morning, pre-caffeinated haze.

Here it is. These people are the equivalent of Creationists, but with policy. They don't believe in Evolution. They are dogmatically, dyed-in-the-wool, inextricably bound to the idea of everything, and everybody of worth, being born perfect, and remaining perfect throughout their immortal lives. Or springing from the forehead of the father/mother God, fully armored and ready for battle, if you prefer the Greek version. But more than that, they don't believe in Evolution at all, as applied to everyday life. That it exists, and that things can change dramatically from what they were in the beginning, (toad-like things crawling out of the muck) to something that is indescribably beautiful and/or ugly and yet perfect because it is perfectly adapted to its environment, and also able to change as the environment changes.

Nope. Not this bunch. For them, a bill has to be the faultless creation of an omniscient God, preferably a beneficent dictator that they elected, whose actions are the perfectly timed distillation and shimmering result of this groups' cacophonous dreams and desires, shouted up to him/her via prayer and email.
No, I did not just compare Obama to the Messiah.
But maybe they did. Or really wanted him to live up to that impossible ideal.
And now, as it turns out, he's just human. And quite possibly, an imperfect politician, as well as a good man, loving husband and father.
But God? No. Our country just isn't set up that way. Even if Jesus himself were at the helm, He would have to defer to Congress on many things, including the price of salt and sorghum, and health care.
As an anthropologist, you know why this gets under my skin. To me it's plain as day that everything in its current state has evolved to that state, and will continue to evolve, or die. Even extinction is part of evolution. Nothing sprang forth from anywhere full-blown- it's all been an incredibly long, painful, beautiful process.
If you're a Creationist, you believe God created Earth and the Heavens in 7 days, and they were perfect and full-formed from the get-go. Much as they'd like to think of themselves in this way, our Congress Critters are not perfectly formed, much less God-like. Trust me, if a Congress of 459+ people had created the Earth rather than a single, all-knowing God, it would also be a watered-down, trite and hackneyed, though very well-intentioned, version of what we have now. Grizzly bears would not be allowed to eat themselves silly every salmon run, the Nile might make several jerry-mandered turns through Africa so every district gets a shot at the water, and flowers might have to hold a yearly convention with the bees so that everyone's on the same page. It would be bureaucratic pandelirium. So sure, I see the appeal of just having a dictator lay down the law and say, My way or the highway, you ignorant sluts.
But look around- everything here evolved on its own, and in concert with everything else around it, and as a result we have harmony. Well, we're fucking with the harmony, but underlying everything, I believe, is balance and harmony.

It's more than just my anthropologist's brain that's pissed off though. Our dear
friend Lindy died of a preventable, treatable form of cancer because she had
no health insurance, and therefore no health care, for a critical year, even though she was working full-time. I don't think she died so that a bunch of rich white kids who went to Ivy League schools could build their careers off her "story," while simultaneously launching their versions of Utopia and standing on shiny marble pilasters of Principle, for Christ's sake. If she is saying anything to us from beyond the grave, it is probably "Do something" and not "We Need More Sacrifices for The Cause," because, um, we don't. And she'd also probably say, Enjoy yourself, and Listen to more Pink Floyd.

In short, I've had with dogmatism and ideology, and I'm going to be pretty godamned dogmatic about that from now on. Be warned, all you list-serv masters around the globe. The legs of my proverbial in-box are slamming shut. Only the noblest of missives will get through.

Dressers

Many of you already know, but many of you don’t because you were raised by a goddamn pack of hyenas, but dressers are a hallmark of civilized life.

Dressers. You know, like, the things with drawers that you put your clothes in, dude.

It don’t matter if all you have in your dresser is a bunch of 20-year-old concert t-shirts, your underwear of choice (if any) and some holey socks- if you even have a dresser, e.g. something besides milk crates and boxes to put your clothes in- you are therefore civilized.

If not, you may be homeless, or a college student, or simply choose to live like a homeless college student /animal because “yer clothes need to be FREE man! Free! Like, no constraints of wooden pseudo-categorization and subliminal attachment to class and status, man. “ *

This brings up a good point. Rich kids, aka trust-funders, who don’t USE their dressers as an act of “rebellion” against Mummy and Daddy don’t count. They HAVE dressers, so therefore, unfortunately, they belong to civilized society. Just because they leave all their clothes on the floor, clean and dirty, doesn’t mean there isn’t a 700 year old mahogany family heirloom just begging to hold their designer undies.

However, for more than a year now, two or more people in this small family of mine have not had dressers. We sold my daughter’s changing table/dresser last summer at our garage sale, thinking we’d immediately replace it with something better. We put her clothes in the cute little cloth-lined wicker baskets she already had, plus boxes I snagged from work. Months went by.

My husband hasn’t had a dresser since I forced him to give it away, during the move from our old house to this one, because it was an ancient, ‘70’s era hand-me-down from my parents and I was trying to clear the bad ju-ju. We thought we’d get him one, or get us both a big one to share, almost immediately. You know what happened. Months went by. He stored his underwear first on the floor, and then in boxes, on the floor of my daughter’s closet, our closet being too tiny to accommodate his stuff.

I was the only one with a dresser for a long time. And it was tiny, by today’s standards, and to my eyes, hideous. It had belonged to my mother when she was in high school, so its original provenience was Lincoln, Nebraska, the 1950’s. It was a maple stained, possibly even maple wood 4-drawer little number, of a style popular in the mid-century. Not too “modern” looking, but not too old-fashioned either. The drawer pulls were desperately trying to be Colonial, or Federalist, and even had a fake patina of age on their cheap brass veneers. Two of them had committed suicide sometime in the 90’s, so thankfully I only had to bear the ugliness of the other two.

It had gone through at least 5 college-era moves with me, and had the scratches and stains to prove it. For a long time it was my night stand, and I was happy to use it as that since the tomato crate I had for that purpose was busted, and too small. In my 20’s, I was grateful to have it, since most of the rest of my furniture consisted of the aforementioned crates, and a futon. I couldn’t afford anything else, and it even looked “cute” with a table runner thrown over it and afternoon sunlight hitting my jewelry case/cigar box just right. In my 30’s, I still had the damn thing, still couldn’t afford to replace it, and was no longer speaking to my parents. I wanted the thing dead, gone, or set on fire. Many were the times when I contemplated leaving it in the alley to rot a good five minutes before the local scavengers picked it up. Many were the trips to Goodwill and Salvation Army where I very nearly gave the thing away. Even to replace it with an equally hideous, formica-coated-particle board off-gassing relic from the 70’s would have been better, because it wouldn’t have all the emotional baggage of my abusive family.

Now that I near 40, and am properly medicated, my heart is turning towards healing rather than bitterness. My focus is not so much on revenge, or reparations (which will never happen) but on transformation. Mostly out of curiosity, as in; seeing how it would make me feel, I decided that instead of donating the thing (when we NEED dressers, hence, stupid) or setting it on fire, or chopping it up with my landscaping axe, I would refinish the thing for my daughter. Cover up all the scratches and water stains with white paint, put some handsome “Restoration Hardware” style silver knobs on it- and voila- maybe it wouldn’t heal the relationship with my family, but it might heal my relationship with IT, and all hand-me-down furniture.

And this transformation thing- it does invite me. I’ve managed to transform my relationship to Disney movies as my daughter now watches and loves them. Yes, me, the so-called “raging feminist with a Marxist agenda” (whatever the fuck that means.) Maybe it’s the medication, again, but as I watch Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid, and even the Barbie versions of Swan Lake and The Nutcracker (which are, seriously, not that bad) - I realize they’re all about transformation. And that is not a bad message at all. Any little girl can be, or already IS a princess. Kindness and love are tremendously powerful. Opening you r heart and your mind can change the world. It’s really not about the dresses and tiaras, although the outfits are a fabulous, visual and tactile metaphor for the transformation that has taken place inside the characters.

It’s a daily struggle for me to transform myself from the wretched victim of abuse that I was, to the fabulous babe I know I’m destined to be. I want this dresser to be the visual symbol of fabulousness that came from wretched circumstances. The ugly duckling transformed to a swan. The silk purse made out of a sow’s ear. The love I feel for my daughter, made manifest. A reminder that Love (capital L) is so powerful, it can reach back generations and transform abusive narcissism into supportive, nurturing, unconditional, beauteous, immortal, love.

We also might paint cowgirls on it.

We also might paint cowgirls on it.