Here's a not-birth story for you

I consider myself a birth professional, even though I don't work in that capacity very often. The one and only time I went to a convention for birth pros, I was given a test to see what kind of advocate I was: woman centric, baby centric, pair centric.

Guess which one I am?

I chose to pursue alternative woman-led birthing (as opposed to directed, medical birthing) while I was pregnant with my son, my first child. It was my first child but not my first pregnancy. I terminated my first pregnancy in the summer after my first year of college. I was 18 years old.

That summer was a crazy blur of bad choices. I had met my boyfriend, a stage actor from L.A. in the last few weeks of the spring semester. He had come up to fish and discovered he had miserable seasickness. At that point I was woefully inexperienced and painfully self-conscious, enough so that I didn't really believe that this very handsome boy could be interested in me or anything I had to offer. When summer rolled around, I moved into a house with Actor BF and some friends and tried to make ends meet with a (very short) string of ridiculous jobs I wasn't interested in, and whatever money got sent from home. I drank a lot and hung out with some amazing friends who kept me fed and mostly out of trouble. No one thought to remind inexperienced, self-conscious, loudly feminist me that I needed to Take Care Of Business instead of letting Actor BF do it. I never went on birth control, and at some drunken point, our poorly-realized plan of condom usage failed. By the end of summer, I had Urgent Business to Take Care Of.

We ferried to Bellingham, and he gave me $300 before dropping me off at Sea-Tac, where I used $99 of it for a MarkAir flight back to Denver. I was numb and disbelieving the whole time. Apparently we visited the Ketchikan mall and had dinner at a pizza joint. I know that only because of the sentence fragments I jotted in my poetry journal. I made it to Denver with only a borrowed backpack full of dirty clothes and a sense of shame. My sister picked me up and drove me to her house. The next day she helped me call the clinic, and two days later she took me to Glenwood Springs and gave me juice to wash the Valium down with. Then she brought me back again, held my hand while tears poured down my face, and bought me lunch that I couldn't eat. She never said a word that wasn't support or love. She told her husband I had a bad case of the stomach flu, probably from food poisoning. She told our mom I was better off on her couch, where she could bring me soup. She let me cry and cry, and two weeks later, got me back to Denver so I could catch a flight all the way back to Alaska where I could finish what I started. I wrote a few poems about it, cried a little bit more, told Actor BF to fuck off, as he really wasn't good enough for me. And then I moved on.

I mention this all now because I read a blog post this morning on, of all things, a sewing blog. A 60-something hippie type told the author of that blog about her repeat abortions, the first of which was in 1969. The blog author came home and wrote about the harrowing experience of hearing these stories, and expressed her disbelief that the woman who told them could truly be at peace with her decisions. The author spoke of her sadness for this woman's "aborted babies." She wondered how this woman's life would have been different if she'd chosen to birth those children. She honestly believed that woman's life would have been better.

I know how my life would have been different. I could enumerate the ways, but suffice it to say that it would NOT have been for the better. I do not regret not having a baby at the precious age of 18, when obviously I could barely care for MYSELF. I don't regret not having a child with an alcoholic that I didn't love. Not only do I not regret it, I applaud it as one of the few truly sensible decisions I have made in my life. On the rare occasion that I dwell on it for even a moment, I think, "Thank GOD."

I have tried to write this not-birth story before, because I know that the stigma about abortion won't go away if we don't talk about it. I have found again and again that I was embarrassed to write it. But embarrassed about WHAT? I'm not ashamed that I made the choice I did. I'm not ashamed that I chose to go on and birth other children. I'm not ashamed to say I would have more if I weren't worried that this world can't hold them. Choosing to end that pregnancy gave me the strength to make other choices, ones that were crucial for me and my children. I'm not ashamed of that. The shame I mentioned earlier wasn't because of the abortion. The shame was because I prided myself on being too smarter than that. And I'm not ashamed to say that, either.

no regrets here, either

Another letter to a filmmaker who is screwing stuff up

Dear Zack Snyder,

I really believe that you are a fanboy. You are camped out at 9:15 on Wednesday mornings outside your local shop to pick up the week's new issues. You bag and board anything and everything in case it might be of value some day. You know as much about obscure letterers and colorists from the '60's as baseball fanatics know about the Baltimore Orioles leftfieldsmen. I'm not doubting your geek pedigree. I know you too fucking well.

You're the sniveling little shit who disparagingly asks me upon my arrival at said comic book store if I'm "looking for something in particular - a gift for a boyfriend, maybe?" You're the one who points me firmly in the direction of the Buffy comics when I say I want horror pulp (not that there is anything wrong with the Buffy comics, but they're not exactly Hack 'n' Slash, are they?) You follow me not-terribly-covertly around convention floors making comments about the fit of my Star Trek t-shirt. You are the idiot who insists on trying to rolling to seduce my very powerful, not-at-all sexy mage in a one-off D&D adventure.

Here's the thing, Snyder. I don't much care for your movie-making. I think in your eagerness to make movies that are frame for frame reenactments of the comics they come from, you lose any desire to imbue your films with honesty or weight. It's frustrating when you do that to source material like Frank Miller's 300 and downright detrimental when it's something like Alan Moore's Watchmen. I don't know what graphic novel you were reading, but the Watchmen movie you made was NOT the Watchmen comic I read. The book was filled with fully-fleshed, complex characters with realistic motivations and emotional lives. Your movie? Not so much.

And now you bring us Sucker Punch. On the surface, there is nothing about this film that I shouldn't like. It is filled with dragons and mechas and sword-wielding lovelies and Jon Hamm. But why, for the love of Firefly, must you make the female characters look like they fell face-first into a vat of Porn Spackle(tm)? And why must the entire story be predicated on the assault - implied SEXUAL assault - of a teenager? And why do you take incredibly talented actors like Carla Gugino and Jena Malone and force them to emote with their fake eyelashes? You first remove all the power and agency from Queen Gorgo and Silk Spectres I and II, forcing them into roles where the ONLY art they wield is sexual - the sword-wielding and high kicks are merely frames for their ridiculous costumes. Now you are intent on selling us a whole two hours of this disenfranchising nonsense.

NEWSFLASH: We women live in a world that is fucking FULL of disenfranchising nonsense. We don't need it spoonfed to us in the guise of empowerment. Neither do our daughters, and just as importantly, neither do our sons. I want my budding geek son to not be the guy who chases girls out of the comic book shop, either directly with his nasty attitude or indirectly by insulting their intelligence and sensibilities with his complete ignorance of what makes a tough woman tough.

Honestly, Snyder. Your take on female power makes me feel bite-ier than the JJ Abrams Star Trek reboot. That is saying something.

Yours,
stella

P.S. In case you have forgotten what sexy AND capable looks like:

From now on

I will only use this blog to complain about things which I hate. Today, it's Hollywood. Again.

I know that I have already penned long diatribes about how Big Movies seem determined to destroy the things I feel strongly about by making them NEW! and IMPROVED! but I have to rant about it again. See, a couple of years ago, a little Swedish horror film called Let the Right One In made a bit of a splash amongst film buffs for being creepy, atmospheric, and heartbreaking. It is a coming of age story about having no age to come to, and an exploration of loneliness shared. One of my favorite themes that gets explored in storytelling is how we constantly strive for connection and the myriad ways we build bridges between ourselves. It stayed with me for weeks after I watched it, and I recommended it to anyone who would listen to me. Now Hollywood has gone and "remade" it so's Joe Average don't have to read and watch a movie at the same time (so taxing!) and I am wailing in protest.

All you need to know about the changes made to the story - and I have no doubt they will be endless and appallingly hamfisted - is to note the difference in the admonition offered by the original and revamped titles. Let Me In - the American version - is a plea against good sense, and the very thing we are warned against when dealing with vampires. Let the Right One In... well, there are exceptions to every rule.





I don't have to implore you to let the right one in, do I? Chose wisely.

Also, if you have yet to read the book, go ahead and do it. But not if you think every horror movie needs to be scored with angry screaming rock instead of minor key cello.

Dear Facebook,

No. Just no. But thanks anyhow.

Yours,
Stella

Happy anniversary

Ready for more relationship nonsense, kids? Mmkay, here goes.

I already talked about the stuff, how it happened. We met, and it was supposed to be all fling-y and wasn't that a terrific weekend? and then we couldn't stop talking for three hours on the phone and emailing seventeen times a day. A week after I had to ask his last name so I could feel okay about knowing the color of his underwear, he asked me if I wanted to go on An Adventure, to which I said yes, and then when I came back from it, I couldn't stop thinking about how much I didn't feel all the butterflies and woozy palpitations. My lack of crushing on him in the face of my deep seated desire to know him very well indeed concerned me. I wanted him to run like hell from my insane declarations of maybe something kind of like affection, but he refused to. So then the next five months were me pretending he was telling me the truth the whole truth and nothing but the, and him pretending that I couldn't tell the difference. And then we had a very modern kind of break-up, which was really more like a refusal of service.

And then one year ago to this very day, he drove up to the cafe in a fifteen year old car filled to the brim with brightly colored bribes and a crazy puffy blanket which I have since found I can't sleep under. I frankly wasn't sure that I would ever do so much as read a Facebook post from him again at that point, and having him walk hand in hand down the street with me was surreal.

Since then a whole lot has happened. What it all boils down to though, is that I made a bet with myself that I would never make him a birthday cake, and I lost. Last year I half-assedly made him one to share with my mom (sorry, mom. really sorry.) Now this year I have promised him not just cake, but a pie, too, because I like him that much. AND I am rehearsing again, just so's he can have the Rockabilly Birthday Barbeque Bash I promised him last year when I found out he shares his natal day with Carl Perkins. And I bought him a (whisperwhisperwhisper) and a (mumblemumble) and I'm thinking of giving him the THING, you know the one? [Z. - you didn't for a moment think it would be that easy, did you?] So now he's beholden, what with the awesome presents.

I have not woken up one morning out of the last three hundred and sixty five and thought, "This guy's a jerk. What the hell, Perez?" I haven't even thought, "What am I DOING?" (actually this is pretty much how I start every morning regardless of who I wake up next to, but it has never been in reference to my partnership) I just turn over and make sure he's still there, which he always is.

I am holding up an imaginary glass full of something delicious - right now I wish it were Prosecco and St Germain - in a toast to this marvelous year, and to the man who made it possible, and to you, dear reader, for getting this far even when there are no pretty outfits or pictures of my new tattoos to distract you. I'll see you here again, same Bat time, same Bat channel, in 2011.

Where do we go?

Of all the ridiculous, impetuous, hot-headed things I've done - and rest assured, friends, I have done a LOT of them - most of them I have regretted nearly immediately. I've gone and done it again, and it has taken me weeks to feel like perhaps I should have thought things through a teensy, tiny bit better.

I quit the band.

I quit my own band, the one I sweated and bled over. The band that practically saved my life. The band that was directly responsible for my current relationship. The band that was the reason I made friends with Eve Hell and Memphis Evil, the reason I shook Geoff Firebaugh's hand and had beers with Deke Dickerson, the reason I saw Wanda Jackson perform from backstage. The band that finally allowed me to be the woman I have always fancied myself to be.

When we first started the Sugar Shakers, I talked seriously with a Musician (like one who does it exclusively for money) and he said: bands are like families. It's all very dysfunctional, and there are expectations that never get met, and drama is unavoidable. I laughed him off, because seriously. I wasn't touring 200 dates a year, I was playing for my friends in the bars where I drink on the weekends. I should have paid better attention.

Here's what I loved: falling into the pocket, playing like breathing, knowing how's it's gonna go before it happens. I loved being clapped for, being told I was gorgeous or amazing, being asked again and again to do it some more. I loved being in the constant company of artists and musicians. I loved the insufferably geeky feeling of passing bits of music trivia back and forth. I loved the way the second whiskey went down, the ice slowly melting in my glass on top of my amp, sipping from it while bantering with the pretty girls in the audience. I loved cabling up and tearing down, jenga-ing all the gear into a vehicle, transforming into Stella.

Here's what I hated: taking sides. Not moving forward. Feeling like it was a chore for other band members. Playing who's got the biggest tiara. Being told to just be a princess. I hated those things more than I loved the other stuff for about six months, and I finally just gave up.

I miss it a whole damn parking lot. Ukulele isn't the same thing as slap bass, and I don't really write punk songs, as much as I like to think I do. I love rockabilly music, and I love to play my doghouse. I hope I can find a way to do the things I love without it devolving again into sniping and stressing out. It's only rock and roll.

Valentime's Mixtape

Dear Zac,



You make me swoon.

(P.S. all you people who have hung on this long - I KNOW. I'm SORRY. Sometimes I am less entertaining than I purport to be.)