Sparkle Cake

I will use my shopping trolly to run you down

sparklecake — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 22:01:07 +0000

I’ve learned since becoming a mom American’s love babies, to coo at them, smile at them, comment on how big or small they are and make a general ass of themselves. When a benign looking middle-aged white woman in mom jeans teetered over to my baby carriage and poked her head over my four-month old my gaze didn’t stray much from my soy milk comparison. “Wow! Really good eye tracking,” the woman commented. I listlessly gazed over the ingredient list on the carton and replied “Uh-huh.” Still inches away from my little one’s face she asked, “Is it a boy or a girl?” I detest this question but get it quite often as my favorite baby clothes are green, yellow and white. I told her that she was a girl. Then it happened, this seemingly harmless grandma-type started spewing the nastiest, most offensive, disgustingly sexist line of logic. IN FRONT OF MY DAUGHTER.

“Well that explains it! Girls are better at tracking things and boys walk sooner.” It first I was going to take the highroad. This poor, misinformed woman. A victim to the throws of patriarchy. I calmly retorted, “That is a wonderful example of how sexism affects parents, of course girl babies track better we talk to them more than boys. And we push boy babies to be more active it makes sense that many of them walk sooner.” Feeling very satisfied with myself I was getting ready to push-off from the refrigerator section in search of some Kale in produce. But the woman was in my way. Now standing an uncomfortable foot from the end of my carriage. “I used to care for a pair of twins, and the girl was better at tracking and the boy walked sooner. It’s in the DNA.” Lady you picked the wrong feminist mom. I just about slapped her.

It took a good ten minutes in the frozen foods section to stop sweating. I was hot with anger. I was so offended. But then I had this whole new level of rage she was pushing that sexism on my daughter. A rage I have never known before. This exchange leads me to new rules for a new time. You no longer get to ask about my child’s gender, not just because it’s none of your damn business but because when you find out you treat her differently. At four fucking months.

“Because you’re not a crack addicted prostitute”

sparklecake — Sun, 23 May 2010 07:33:46 +0000

I really enjoy my obgyn, he is a well spoken Jewish man with brown curly hair who works at Alta Bates hospital where he saved my life once already this year. Literally. And also, thanks to him I still have a uterus at 25, because in Grey’s Anatomy fashion Dr. Wonderful pitched a fit when I was bleeding out on the operating table with the my other surgeons and insisted they not remove it. It was a gamble, and thankfully I won on that one. Here I am again three months later and he’s saint uterus saver for the second time. He’s totally going to get a kid named after him.

He called me at home last week to tell me the results of the biopsy’s he took a few weeks ago. I have cervical cancer. Lucky me has very early stage cancer so it’s not yet invasive. He went over all the technicals of the pathology results and no kidding he stays to me, “because you’re not a crack addicted prostitute I think we can treat this conservatively, with an outpatient surgery and you can still have more kids.” Crack addicted prostitute. ha. You make doing blow of a bar stool sound like child’s play Dr. Wonderful.

So of course when he asked me what I wanted to do about this whole cancer thing I said, “I guess being that I am not a crack addicted prostitute we should do the surgery.” Dr. Wonderful will be getting some vegan donuts and a latte for this one ala, thank you for keeping my baby muscle in check.

Cancer: Waiting sucks

sparklecake — Thu, 20 May 2010 07:38:44 +0000

I haven’t gotten my results from the biopsy I had two weeks ago for cervical cancer. My Doctor left a message on my machine Monday night telling me pathologist results are in, and all I’ve gotten is his answering service since then. I was doing pretty good about it until tonight. Now I am done waiting I just want to know.

I am not really afraid of dying. I am not afraid about a terminal diagnosis. I’m afraid of having to make a choice about more children before I am ready because it’s now or never. I am afraid of loosing myself, my sexuality, my energy in having a life saving surgery. I want to be around for my daughter, my grandkids, to see what 2050 looks like yet I still wish that I could just do nothing about all of this. Just go on with life as usual, as a healthy person, as a mom, a young lesbian, a beer drinking 25-year-old. I would rather just get on with it.

I want to know if I am going to be weaning my three-month old to try to re-gain fertility. I want to know if I will be trying to track down some reputable sperm. I want to know if I am going to be utterly irresponsible, live the stereotype and get pregnant with a second child while I am on welfare. Or I want to know if I need to start shopping for a surgeon to specializes in gynecological oncology (and how exactly to you choose which one to pick?). I want to know if my insurance will cover a radical trachelectomy that will take out half an inch of my vagina, my cervix in its entirety and some lymph nodes. I want to be ready to tell my family. I want to know what to say to strangers and their pitiful looks. I want to start planning for my new sex life after having doctors hack away at these dangerous womanly bits.

My doctor told me at the appointment to try to worry until we get the results. I told him I wasn’t stressed I was just reading up on the treatment options and surgical outcomes for treating different biopsy outcomes. He turned to me and said, “That’s how people like you and I worry.”

I guess I will go back to reading the newest issue of Integrated Cancer Therapies journal and have a beer.

Tagged: Cancer

Mother’s Day

sparklecake — Sat, 15 May 2010 07:52:53 +0000

Grandma wasn’t to pleased about the new necklace.

Would you like to see my breasts again?

sparklecake — Fri, 14 May 2010 00:56:15 +0000

Breastfeeding rates in America are the highest they’ve been in years and I too have jumped on the bandwagon of this economical, breast cancer reducing, baby immune boosting trend. And I am getting so good at whipping out the boob. Really.

I get a kick out of my mother’s uncomfortable comments when we are out at restaurants, “Giving everyone a show are we?” Exposed my breasts inadvertently enough times that my male friends have claimed that it’s officially no longer exciting. No joke.

I’ve nursed for three months and FINALLY now I can pull out a breast in the middle of a café, or on isle three of Safeway, wave it around, chirping, “Hungry? Come on! You know you want it..” Now that I’ve gotten used to the process I spend all day nursing all around town, on the bus, at the park lying on a picnic blanket, sitting sipping a latte. I nurse in public, and I don’t cover up. It’s lactavism. Never have my boobs wielded such power!

50 Reasons for Breastfeeding Anytime, Anywhere

A post on Ass Hair

sparklecake — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 16:00:16 +0000

Check out this funny post from THE WORLD: Through Mom-Colored Glasses

Happ Birthday Mom

sparklecake — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 05:02:10 +0000

Today is my mother’s birthday and I went to buy her flowers. I live above a florist’s shop so I figured easy move right? Go downstairs get some flowers for your mother’s birthday. I grabbed ten dollars, strapped on a half-naked baby and went down stairs. Inside the owner asked me, “What can I get you?” I said, “Yeah, I am wondering if you could help me with a bouquet for my mother’s birthday. I have ten dollars.” She looks around the shop. She walks down on the isles. She turns and says, “I’m not sure, I could give you one of these lily they are $8.50.” For ONE! So I’m thinking… okay maybe she doesn’t really get that I was serious about the ten dollars and I didn’t mean per flower. Revelation hits. My mother’s favorite flower. It would be significantly more thoughtful to get my mother a bouquet of her favorite flower on her birthday. So I ask her, “Have you got any carnations?” She stops. She open her mouth, then closes it. She scoffs, raises her eyebrows and says, “No we don’t carry THOSE” like had asked her for some TB or a hit of crack cocaine. Then she laughed at me and shook her head. Like it’s my fault my mother has cheap taste in flowers which works well with my budget. LIKE I SHOULD KNOW BETTER. HOW DARE I!

So walked to another florist on College Ave called Ashby Flowers. They had carnations. They didn’t even charge me per flower. They even complimented me on my often under valued floral choice. My mother loved them.

How To Upgrade Grocery Store Flowers (hellobeautiful.com)

Tagged: Everyday

A true Bodhisattva

sparklecake — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 19:18:58 +0000

Listening

sparklecake — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 06:05:39 +0000

Jack Johnson’s “Better Together“

Truth on a Bus

sparklecake — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 20:41:42 +0000

I take the bus most everywhere that it is too far to walk. I have taken the bus since I moved here in November. Took in throughout my pregnancy. I even took the bus home through my contractions jumping up and holding on the pole with each wave of them. In the bay area (and across much of the United States) public transportation is mostly utilized by the lower class, and because of the unfortunate state of racism in this country a disproportionately large amount of people of color. I adore taking public transport because of the random nature of the people who I encounter who I would not otherwise because of the wealthy area in which I live. White middle class people tend to keep to themselves and drive their own cars. Most would never imagine the truth-telling that happens on a bus.

This morning I was taking the bus in Oakland, CA from Telegraph and 32nd home and I sat next to a man in his late twenties with a blond beard who pulled down a seat for me as I boarded. I could smell the Whiskey on his breath the moment I sat down. He of babbled on incoherently about baby skin, looking at one’s self in the mirror, the spots he had burned himself in his fingertips, the trinity. Sometimes he made sense, sometimes he didn’t. He asked questions, “Is it a boy or a girl… are you going to the end of the line?” He gave advice, “Don’t do anything rash… you will become senile when you’ll old if you’re not careful.” He asked, “We won’t ever see each other again will we?” I replied “Nope, that’s the bus it’s just a few minutes with strangers.” I asked questions back, “How long have you been an alcoholic?” To which he replied, “The first day I had a drop.” Oh, the truth telling. He asked me “did you love him?” I an I replied, “Yes.” “That’s sad.” “Not really, it just is.” “Can I walk you home?” “No, thank you.” Just as quickly as we met, we said goodbye with a handshake. Now I know that he was completely drunk 11 in the morning, doesn’t know me from Adam. But I am grateful for the truth-telling. The random, honest exchange between strangers who have nothing and everything in common. And I love that every time I ride the bus I meet a different stranger. I learn about their children. There largest regret. Their addiction, their belief in God, Obama and their unhappiness in their marriage. They tell me their secrets and I tell them mine. Riding the bus is the most honest part of our day.

Tagged: Observations