This lovely little plate arrived in the mail for me on Mermaid Monday! Straight from NOLA from a dear friend who just saw it and thought of me.  So beautiful!  Thank you, Rooster! Bawk! Bawk!

I am captivated by it, as I am often captivated by all things mermaid.  I mean, I can't stop staring at it and her.  It's just so... pretty!

My love for and fascination with mermaids has been life-long.  The first time I swam underwater, I remember telling myself that if I just pretended to be a mermaid, it would be easy.  And it was! Then, several years later, the movie Splash came out and the image of a little mermaid brought that fantasy to life.  I was only eleven when Splash came out in theaters.  

Of course, at the time, I thought eleven was pretty old.  After all, I started my period that year.  My mom left my dad (again) that year.  And in that same school year, The Breakfast Club also came out and I transformed myself into a tiny Ally Sheedy imitation -- complete with giant black bag full of shit, black wrestling shoes, heavy black eyeliner, unwashed hair in my face and a creepy obsession with death and not fitting in.  It was actually a good look for me at the time, I swear.  

Thinking about this transformation now, though, I am aware how complicated my reactions to the world were.  

I WANTED to be the half-naked Darryl Hannah unfurling her tail in the bathtub in the middle of the night.  But I also wanted -- just as Ally Sheedy's character in The Breakfast Club wanted -- to be invisible in a way that would make someone-worth-knowing notice me.  The two images are seemingly in stark contrast but in my heart they arose from the same condition:  growing up girl.  

I have always been torn about the change in Sheedy's character at the end of the film.  The rich, pretty girl (who seemed in particular abundance in my own school) pulls Sheedy's hair back, exposing her face; takes the dark, black make-up off and puts gloss on her lips; forces her out of her sweater and exposes her feminine white cotton tank top.  At the end of all of this, the rich, pretty girl offers Sheedy's character up to the meathead wrestler.  A few minutes later, they kiss.  It's a sweet moment in the film where two worlds are colliding and kids are growing up and as a viewer of the film, I understood its epiphanic purpose -- but it also always seemed like a betrayal to me.  The dark hiding brooding girl had to be put away so that she could find love.  The dark hiding brooding girl is unlovable. The dark hiding brooding girl has to expose herself and make herself less frightening in order to be lovable.  

This is also why I've never absolutely loved the story or the film, The Little Mermaid.  The Little Mermaid is a betrayal to mermaids everywhere. She hates being a mermaid and longs to be human.  That's crazy!  This is also, incidentally, why I love the film Ponyo which is a reinterpretation of the story of The Little Mermaid. This film explores Ponyo's (The Little Mermaid's, or in this case The Little Goldfish's) world and psyche enough to help the audience understand that being a human means freedom.  The desire for freedom, I can wrap my head around.  Particularly in the Film The Little Mermaid, the mermaid just wants to be a human princess because the human princes she's seen on ships are so irresistible.  BLECH! What the sea witch knows but is too evil to tell her is that in her desire for these weak little princes, the mermaid princess is giving up her true power in this world, the thing that makes her terrifying and awesome: her tail!  Same story as the dark hiding brooding girl.  You must relinquish your power if you are to be considered beautiful.

FUCK THAT. 

Even at eleven, though I wouldn't have been able to articulate it fully, I knew the culture around me saw the dark hiding brooding girl and the mermaid in the bathtub as two very different entities, images, energies. But, to me, they both embodied the thing I felt growing up girl, the thing I wanted to be able to understand. The mermaid unfurling her tail in the night.  The dark hiding brooding girl.  These are images of female beings in the state of gathering their power, just as an eleven year old girl who has recently gotten her period and is in the throes of puberty is beginning to feel and fully gather her power. Just as women (and people in general, really) contain a natural, earth-shaking power that can't be co-opted by advertisers or sold at market.  

Even as I googled the images above of "mermaid in the bathtub" or "young mermaid,"  hundreds of sexy, soft-core porn images came up.  It saddens me that the power of the mermaid has been so dumbed down in our culture. But, one only needs to step into a halloween store these days to realize that absolutely any role or cultural figure can be dumbed down and sexualized for mass consumption.  Sexy nuns.  Sexy firefighters.  Sexy unicorns.  And what does sexy mean in this case, exactly?  Why do I say that "sexy" and "dumbed down" are almost synonymous in our culture?  Because to make a costume sexy, all you have to do is remove most of the material, exposing as much breast, thigh, and ass as possible;  add a bunch of glitter; and make sure whatever material is there is skin tight.  ooooh, sexy.  

Truly, I do understand why this is "sexy" -- and I understand why the image of a mermaid is sexy.  I mean, bodies can be gorgeous things.  But THAT sexy, THAT gorgeousness is only the very tip of a very large iceberg.  Victoria's Secret used to have a "What is Sexy" ad campaign.  Of course, their simple answer to their own question seems to be:  really skinny women with large breasts in awesome lingerie.  Sure, I get that -- especially since it sells their wares. But what is REALLY sexy?  What is REALLY powerful and life-altering-ly attractive?  Confidence and intelligence and strength.  And someone can have all of those things and not look like the sexy angels in a Victoria's Secret advertisement.  Someone can have all of those things and not look like the beefcake in a firefighters pin-up calendar (I'm trying to think of an image of men that men have to live up to -- but it doesn't work the same way for men so the majority of that conversation will have to be saved for another time).  

Does it seem like I'm being defensive? I can hear a less intelligent reader saying, "she's just saying that cause she's ugly.  Ugly women are always trying to take the fun out of sex."  Haha!  I'm lol-ing right now. Give me a minute....  No, dear reader (if any of my readers are the kind of readers that would think this for a second) I am not ugly.  I am a forty-year-old woman who gained a lot of weight while being pregnant with two children in her thirties.  I have my mother's beautiful smile and her beautiful brown eyes, thank goodness! I am very curvy (much curvier than those Victoria's Secret models, thank you). I lost all of my baby weight -- and then some --  long after all the books say I should have, by becoming a triathlete and lifting weights. After this insanely shitty last couple of years -- with the deaths of two of my brothers and having a hysterectomy -- I gained a bit of weight back. Does this make me ugly? Hell No!  And what's more, what's infinitely much much much more:  What makes me beautiful most is NOT my body.  My body is the tiny tip of a very large iceberg.  The iceberg lies within me.  My confidence. My intelligence. My strength.  THAT'S what's beautiful and THAT'S what's sexy.  And I say this not because it is true for ME but because it is true for ALL of us. Whatever our gender identity.  Whatever our outward appearance.  Whatever the world tells us.  Our Power is what matters.  Our Power is what makes us beautiful.  The brooding girl knows this. The mermaid knows this.  

A couple of years ago, I lost around 30 pounds.  Because I had lost somewhat significant amounts of weight before, I knew as I lost that eventually people would start commenting on it.  I knew people couldn't help it. I too will give someone a complement if I see a difference in their physique -- especially if I know they've been working hard to change it.  But, it's always been a little devastating to me when people notice and say something as if they are saying, "I used to think you were disgusting looking and now I have a little respect for you." Ha! I know it's not meant to sound like that.  Of course, that's not at all what I mean when I tell someone how great they look.  But, our culture is so obsessed with thinness and appearance that it is very hard for most women (and probably everyone to a degree) not to attach their worth to their weight. When a girl grows up with images everywhere that tell her that her appearance determines her worth, this can't be helped. I know, despite and contrary to my intelligence, a part of me has always attached my worth to my weight.  When my weight went up, my worth went down.  

But the mermaid absolutely renounces this idea.  The mermaid knows her power exists in her ability to expand and contract as life flows through her.  The mermaid knows her power exists in her ability to swim through anything.  And keep swimming.

I am so grateful to my four-year-old self who chose the mermaid to imitate.  I am so grateful to my eleven-year-old self who brooded and hid and gathered her strength and somehow knew innately that the messages I was receiving about who I should aspire to be (basically, a Victoria's Secret model) were wrong. I am grateful that I have always known there is a big difference between the mermaid (spoiler alert!) that saves Tom Hanks by pulling him down to Atlantis with her and The Little (Traitor) Mermaid.  And I am grateful that, like any good mermaid, I am never done learning and evolving.    

And mostly, today, I am grateful for my family and friends who might not totally understand my (sort-of cheezy) obsession with the mermaid but continually send me little gifts of mermaid paraphernalia to encourage that obsession.  I love you guys! Thank you Shira Lurie -- you rock!

Keep on Keepin' on, mermaids and mermaid lovers and just plain cool people
always always always, with love,
Your QP

I am a writer without a room of my own… that is, I’ve been having trouble finding a comfy spot to write from these days.  Tonight, I’m in my daughter’s room as she sleeps.  We’ve been trying to transition her to go to sleep by herself.  She’s 6.  It’s time.  But, this has lead to the ridiculous practice of me singing her to sleep while I “work” on my laptop at the end of her bed.  It’s ridiculous because she’s still not really putting herself to sleep (although it’s a huge bonus that she doesn’t actually have to be physically touching anyone to fall asleep) and because I don’t actually get any real work done in this position.

Nevertheless, tonight, it occurs to me that I love being in my daughter’s room.  It is super cozy and quiet (except for her sleepy animal breathing) and I feel safe and calm in it; less overwhelmed and rushed and worried about what tomorrow morning is going to bring. 

Lately, I’m surprised as the spaces I feel comfortable in.  

Last Sunday, we took our annual trip to “Grandma’s Pumpkin Patch.”  And today I bought my first pair of ice skates – hockey ice skates! – and we went ice skating for the third time already this season.  I have also found myself loving – yes, deeply loving – my walks with the dog lately.  We walk through Midland’s City Forest.  We walk to and through Barstow Woods Park – which has been taken over by dogs and their owners.  I love these activities.  I love these places.  I have to admit this because I’ve really been bitching about living here (not just Midland – but in mid-Michigan at all)  since I arrived nearly 10 years ago. 

See, I’m a city girl at heart.  At least, I used to be.  Lately, I’m not sure.  I cringe as I write this but today, as I was walking my dog home from Barstow, I was making a mental checklist of what I would want in my next home.  A real wood burning fireplace topped the list.  The second thing I thought of was a large, fenced-in, wooded area for the dog and for privacy.  Wooded area?  Who am I?

Four (or five?) years ago when we took our kids to Grandma’s Pumpkin Patch for the first time, I could not stop laughing and marveling at how small town we had become, how pathetic our need for entertainment was that we would actually pay to visit such a place.  Grandma’s Pumpkin Patch is essentially someone’s backyard turned into a make-shift “amusement” park complete with a hay ride through a badly decorated “forest,” a bouncy haunted house, hay stacks to climb on, a corn maze, overpriced donuts and cider, and… my favorite… pig races.  Remember how I just said I’m a city girl at heart?  Pig races.  Yep, pig races.

So… this year I had to laugh at myself again.  But this time I wasn’t laughing because I was so small town and pathetic that I had no choice but to bring my kids to Grandma’s Pumpkin Patch.  Nope.  I laughed at myself because I couldn’t wait to go.  Because the hay ride and the bouncy haunted house and the overpriced cider and donuts and the pig races have all become so much a part of our fall/ Halloween ritual that we do not engage in them with any hint of irony anymore.  We love it!

After a bit of running around and one trip on the hay ride, we slip over to the little food shack, buy our hot cider and one donut each then cozy up to the giant fire pit and enjoy!  My daughter looks for the pumpkin princess so she can get her picture taken with her.  My son inevitably asks to feed the goats then refuses to feed the goats once we’ve bought the 50 cent cup of food, so I feed the goats.  We consider buying pumpkins then we remember it’s actually really expensive to buy pumpkins there so instead, on the way home, we get a great deal from a couple of young teenage girls who live on one of the back roads between Grandma’s Pumpkin Patch and our house and who have raised enough pumpkins to fill a warehouse and are selling them for $2 each.  Huge, beautiful, bright orange pumpkins.  $2 a piece.  We’re thrilled. 

And before we know it, it’s been a lovely day in Midland, Michigan.  Dammit! How it pains me to admit it.  

The first time I ever stepped foot in Manhattan, I was twelve years old.  I was on a hellish road trip with my parents who had spent the night before fighting like crazy in the hotel room we got somewhere in Jersey when my dad had gotten crazy lost and had given up finding New York until morning.  As soon as we stepped out of the car, I felt this huge surge of something between excitement and relief, and I told my mother I would live there one day.  At this point, I had been living in the suburbs of Detroit for about five years.  I was still stuck between up-north Michigan country girl and suburban-girl and my-dad-works-in-downtown-detroit-and-I-spend-a-lot-of-time-there girl.  Funny, it occurs to me now, I might be stuck there still.

At the last Associated Writing Programs Conference I attended a few years ago in Chicago, I met a couple of typically super-hip, skinny, beautiful writers from New York.  When they asked where my press was from (I was representing Binge Press at the time), I apologetically and sheepishly said, “Michigan.”  One of them said, “aw, man, don’t say it like that.  Be true to your school, man.  Say, ‘I’m from the great state of Michigan!’” I had never considered before that there were people who didn’t think of Michigan as totally lame or even people who just didn’t know enough about any of the in-between states to know what they were like and weren’t big enough assholes to jump to the conclusion that if it’s not New York or California it must suck, or, at the very least, not matter.  Even though, their point was just to say that I made it sound like it really sucked and I shouldn’t do that, they also got me thinking about what there is to appreciate about Michigan and what really does make it a pretty awesome state.  I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around loving Michigan and the Michigan that’s in me (and there’s plenty of it, believe me) since that encounter.  

But loving Michigan and loving the Great Lakes Bay Region are two different things.  Michigan has Detroit.  Michigan has the Lake Michigan Lakeshore and Sleeping Bear Dunes and my favorite little town on earth, Frankfort.  The Great Lakes Bay Region has Saginaw (respect and love to Saginaw – but it’s no Detroit) and a Tall Ships Festival every three years in Bay City and a handful of pretty sweet parks in Midland… and, let’s not forget, Grandma’s Pumpkin Patch.  Ann Arbor is in Michigan.  But the closest thing the Great Lakes Bay Region of Michigan has to Ann Arbor is the cosmic meeting place between Populace Coffee House in Bay City, the Unitarian Universalist Church in Midland and the Roethke House in Saginaw.  If one could somehow triangulate the energy between those three places and create an actual place within that triangulation, you’d have about the energy of one small coffee shop in downtown Ann Arbor. 

Still… I am trying.  I.  Am.  Trying. 

Part of that trying is just an exploration of what spaces & places mean and why.  Why is it so sweet and comforting and lovely to be sitting in my daughter’s room, listening to her breathe under the pink glow of her little Ikea flower nightlight?  My daughter is one of the people in this world who belongs to me and to whom I belong.  I think in all my searching I have found this much, we have only a little control over who we end up belonging to and who ends up belonging to us.  Life unfolds too quickly – or at least mine has – to understand how or why the relationships I have (and create and nurture and hold dear) demand my body to be in a certain place at a certain time.  

For a long time, I was calling this “stuck.”  But if this is being “stuck,”  I do have to admit, it’s a pretty sweet stuck.  I’m loved.  I have people to love.  I have walking with my dog and playing with my kids and watching them sleep and snuggling on my big red couch and chocolate chip pancakes on Sunday mornings and pizza and movie nights with the kids on Friday nights and I get to do work I love and that I believe in.  On top of all of this, being “stuck” in this place has afforded me the time and energy to begin doing triathlons, to become a fitness instructor, to write (when I can), and to not have to worry too much about how we’re going to pay for groceries or our utilities.  

I guess the truth is, it’s not so bad being “stuck.”  There I said it.  And I’ll say this one more time too, just so it really sinks in:  I actually like the pig races.  So there.  And if I can admit to liking the pig races, can a full acceptance of my happy residency in the Great Lakes Bay Region of Michigan be far behind?  I don’t know.  Let’s see.

Wherever you are “stuck,” may you be stuck with love.

Namaste,

QP