Oh that I were a man; I would eat his heart in the marketplace

Because I am still on a waiting list for a therapist, and also because like...I don't know, I've never tried to utilize therapy to work out my Dan Baggage...I am occasionally bombarded with recollections about my relationship with Dan that tug at the back of my brain until I deal with them. I recalled something a few days ago that I couldn't quite stop thinking about, and I think it came relatively full circle this morning as I was making myself some Sola toast. 

Early into the dating period with Dan, we were chatting and assigning numeric value came up. As in, assigning numeric value to your partner's attractiveness. Or anybody's attractiveness, really. We went on this tangent for a little bit, rating certain things, certain celebrities, you know...the kind of small talk that fends off real intimacy, but FEELS like closeness. Being naturally curious, I asked Dan what my number was. This felt like a relatively safe question, since we had been seeing each other for a couple of months now. Logic sort of demands that if someone is with you, they must find you attractive, right? So you're at least a 5? At least a 5. You can pretty safely put yourself into the mid-range with any given person who has signed on to fucking you with a modicum of regularity. 

So when Dan responded with some version of, "Oh, I can't tell you that", I thought he was just playing coy. And I think he was, in the moment. Withholding information was Dan's favorite way to flirt. Like how he didn't tell me his birthday for at least a year, though my memory recalls it was closer to two years. And how he wouldn't tell me his middle name, which was an innocent enough question to ask when you're sharing harmless things with people. So many of his responses pushed me further into the dark about even the most benign knowledge of him, so much so that Allen and I joked that Dan was married, and I couldn't know who he was or be friends with him on Facebook because he didn't want me to see he had a wife. I say joked, but Dan's steadfast refusal to make me any kind of part of his life as the months we were together grew kept me a little fearful that maybe it wasn't a joke after all. Dan may not have been married, but maybe he had another girlfriend back from wherever he came from. That shit ate at me a lot. 

I was a little irked that Dan wouldn't give me my number. I told him I'd give him his! I was prepared to inflate his number to sweeten the number he'd give me. That's how the number system works, right? Reciprocity, not honesty? That's the system I was prepared to utilize. But he stonewalled. I let it go, for a little bit. 

A few months later I asked him again for my number, this time in response to a similar conversation we were having about assigning a value to each other's sexual skills. This was another value Dan was reluctant to give me, though he did say something to the effect of needing to have sex at least 100 times, to make it scientific. 

Bitch....that's not how science works! Though...in fairness, I was running around randomizing my sample size all around town, so I felt like I had a pretty good grasp on where he fell in my ranking. Which sexually, he didn't clear the top fifty in skill, but made the top three in participation! Again, I was prepared to lie, because...well. A few reasons. I was already well gone for Dan at this point, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Also what if he told his wife I gave him a low score?? In reality, I didn't feel secure enough with Dan to vocalize my wants and needs for myself in anything more than a superficial way. "I want an avocado" or "I want a bottle of rum" felt safer than saying, "I want you to learn about MY vulva  apart from whatever it is you think you know about general vulvas, because you're not really doing it for me". 

Aside from not being science, it also wasn't cute. I think I found it cute in the moment, because when you're besotted, you'll swoon over any dumb thing that your paramour says, unfortunately. I really hate that part of infatuation. I begged a bit for my number, in that pleading way that feels flirtatious, but in hindsight looks gross and pathetic. Dan told me no again, and told me he'd perhaps tell me later. Way in the future. 

I think I asked him for my number one additional time, while he was deployed in 2012. He told me no, of course. He kept my number from me forever, and now I'll never know it. EVER. And the twenty something in me that LIVED to be objectified will absolutely die fucking mad about it. 

The thing is, Dan not giving me my number was something I dwelled over the longer he withheld it from me. I panicked over it. I told myself that if I had a high number, he would give it to me, right? Everybody wants their partner to know they find them attractive! If Dan really found me attractive, he would fork over my number, then he'd fuck me badly and that would be the end of it. Boom! Romance. 

So...I must not have had a very high number. Earlier I said that you can probably safely assume that your number is at LEAST a 5 if you're with someone who spends more time with you than they spend without you. I felt less and less confident in that the longer Dan and I were together. It wasn't just the lack of giving me a number that made me feel like I was, in Dan's eyes, down in the mucky muck bottom number of like, a 2 or a 1. It was that combined with EVERYTHING else. I was never invited to go on weekends with Dan's friends, even though they took their girlfriends. I was broke and couldn't have afforded it, but to not even be asked was hurtful. I wasn't allowed to meet Dan's friends until WAY late in the game, and even then I didn't get to meet anybody local until Dan asked if I could hook someone up with one of my friends. Dan didn't tell his parents about me, and I have to guess he never told his brothers about me, either. I wasn't allowed to be his friend on social media, I had no real foothold in his life. And if you were with someone who you found attractive, or even just smart and engaging, why would you hide them? You wouldn't unless they were a forbidden affair, and as fun as it was to joke about Dan being married, I spent WAY too much time with him for that to have genuinely been the case. 

So I landed where anybody would land after obsessing over such things: Dan was deeply, deeply ashamed to be with me. And like, the shitty thing was, I told myself I understood why. I was broke, kind of directionless, a little wild, I didn't come from a "good" background. On paper in my mid-late twenties, I was a mess. Me circa now know that I've been worthy of love my whole life, and my career or lack thereof, my not being a college graduate, my being a young, single mother, should not have counted against me, and if I wasn't someone Dan wanted on paper or in real life, that was an easy to remedy problem with HIM, not me. But I didn't feel that way then. I felt like I was ugly and completely worthless, and Dan was right to hide me, so I wasn't going to do anything about it, I would just...stick it out, because I didn't deserve better. 

NOW. 

Here's the thing I thought about this morning as I was making my toast. I can't tell you how I got there, the train of thought that took me to where I recalled this certain thing is unknown to me. 

When I started college, Dan and I weren't necessarily together, but we weren't necessarily not together. It was a weird kind of limbo, though I suppose it was technically no different than when Dan lived in Colorado. The only true difference was proximity to each other in our daily lives. I had a schedule: I went to school four days a week, and three days a week, I got together at VI with Stevie and Tom to study. We would order grown up grilled cheeses and endless pots of coffee, sit with our books and laptops, and study for HOURS, mostly in silence, but also taking occasional breaks to chat and detox from whatever we just learned. At one such study session, I brought up Dan. And I had a picture of him with me...not one of us taken together, as clearly those weren't allowed, either. I do not think there is a single picture of Dan and I together that exists. If I didn't have three pictures of him with my rabbit, I could fairly easily convince myself Dan wasn't real at all, and this relationship never happened. 

I brought out a picture of Dan and asked Tom what he thought of him. Tom looked at Dan's photo, looked at me, and said, "I think you two are of equal attractiveness". 

And. 

I.

FREAKED OUT. 

I had never been so fucking insulted in my life. 

I looked at Tom and said, "....Seriously? You think he and I are on an equal playing field in the looks department?" Tom nodded, smiling, as if he was giving me a compliment. 

"Tom. What is my number?"

"Your what?"

"My number. My assigned value of attractiveness on a scale of 1-10."

"Oh. An 8."

I screeched, inside of Village Inn, at 1 in the morning, "YOU THINK THIS MAN IS AN 8???"

Tom ended up saying that no, he did not think that, but he also didn't want to tell me the dude I was interested in was straight up ugly. I remember telling him that if that's what he thought, he was instead telling ME that I was straight up ugly. Tom said, "But you love him! I know girls want to have everybody validate that the person they're with is at least as attractive as they are!"

I dropped the conversation, mostly because I assumed Tom was lying about something, and it would only further frustrate me trying to figure out what that was. 

Cut to this morning, and what should have been my take away right that very moment: regardless of whether or not Tom was lying...whether or not Tom saw me as an 8 and saw Dan as distinctly less, or saw us BOTH as like...4s but couldn't bring himself to tell his friend she was a stone cold uggo just like the janky dude she was hung up on....what mattered was I did not see Dan as my equal. I saw Dan as physically below me. Me. The girl who had spent their entire relationship with this dude so fucking worried about how he saw her that she didn't bother to assess how she saw HIM.

I was going through some growing shit in my twenties. A lot of it. I had had two children, I had moved around a lot, I had a lot of my life stolen from me, I was using my twenties to just sort of...be aimless because I deserved to take life with a gentleness I controlled. My job didn't have to be important, it just needed to sustain me. I didn't have to have a college degree to be smart. I didn't need a fuck ton of money, or a great pedigree, to be worth anybody's time, and even though I questioned it and settled for less than I deserved, deep down I think I knew it. I think I knew this about Dan, that he was not worth my time. Not for his looks, not for his brain, not for his personality, there was nothing about him that was redeeming enough for my to slink into his shadow like a homeless fucking dog that was grateful for the shade. 

I just wish I had asked Tom for my number sooner. 

Oh hai, reality!

Of the vast array of things I struggle with regularly, one of the things that bothers me the most is my inability to say what I want when I want to say it. There have been so many things that make sense to me about myself being able to view my behaviors through autism, and while needing time to properly put a response together is one of them, there are still moments where it irritates me. I get angry with myself over it. It isn't that I CAN'T respond, it isn't even that I don't have moments of quick wit where I didn't mean to say a thing, but I am glad I did after the fact. About six times out of ten, I feel pressured into saying SOMETHING, and the something that I say is not the thing I actually want to express.

I had to do a really fast real estate shoot update today. One of the properties my agent is working with is a new build, so I'm popping by every so often to take photos of the progress. There was siding put on the house, so I popped over to grab six or seven photos of it, and leave. There was a worker there, a very friendly older gentleman named Wayne that was more than happy to converse with me, and while I do not mind being courteous, small talk makes me uncomfortable. It's one of the scenarios where I know I won't be able to say what I mean fast enough, because I'm very busy combatting how awkward I feel, and judging my safety, and planning my escape routes should things go sideways. 

I as Wayne if he'll move his truck so I can get some photos of the front of the house, he happily obliges, and as I'm shooting the front, he remarks, "you sure have a lot of ink on you". I didn't expect anybody to be at the property, so I wore my work out outfit. A really breezy, sleeveless tank top that shows my entire back, and a pair of tight 3" seam shorts that show the bottom of my mermaid tattoo (that Derek calls my tree fish). You can absolutely see pretty much all of my tattoos in this outfit. So I laughed and said, "I sure do!" Wayne said, "oh, that's alright, I like tattoos." I laughed again, but felt a little irritated inside. I wasn't apologetic in my response, I'm not looking for absolution in having them, or approval. I opted not to say anything in response, because I know he meant nothing by it. In fact, to spoil the ending, that's the entire MO of everything he says for the five minutes extra he keeps me there, chatting to me. He meant every single thing he said as a compliment. Nothing he said was meant to be anything other than nice. And yet I still left the conversation feeling frustrated twice over: one, because I didn't have the space to figure out what I wanted to say, and two, because I felt so diminished as a person by what he said. I felt like what he said really diminished all femme people, and I can pretty much feel my husband's eyes rolling straight out of his head at me saying that, but the words people use matter, and they tend to speak volumes about any given person's world view. 

So there he was, chatting with me about tattoos. He said the problem with them is once you get one, you're hooked on them. I replied that he is absolutely correct, and I've worked my entire life to afford my tattoo habit. Then I mentioned that my oldest got their first tattoo in June, and is about to get another one. He scoffed as he said, "you're not old enough to have kids that age!" I said I absolutely am, my oldest is 19, my husband's oldest is 19, and my youngest is 15. He was shocked, quite plainly, and he told me that I am just so young looking, he wouldn't have guessed I had kids at all. Point one for having kids and not looking haggard, but also...what is it that he thinks about people who have kids? Does having children automatically age you, or make you look a certain way? I guess...I guess it's equally great he didn't just....ASSUME that I have kids because I'm a femme presenting person. It's hard to suss out a general idea about what he meant there, but it felt a bit....off. There's something in there that's sticking in my jaw, and I'm sure I'll work it out later. 

I finished up taking photos of the house. It didn't take long, maybe 5 minutes. I went back to the front to thank him for moving his vehicle, and he wanted to sit and chat with me about himself. Which is fine. He was very nice, very friendly, and even when it makes me uncomfortable, I tend to indulge people when they want to chat, because I've been on the other end of that and I always feel dumb or worthless if I just want to be nice with someone and connect for two seconds, and they're clearly not interested. I could write a whole thing about femme people being taught to be accommodating to masc presenting people, but I will save that nuanced conversation for another time. 

Wayne told me that he's a 70 year old man, and he stared at me for several seconds, clearly expecting SOMETHING. So I was like....well you don't look it? And he said thank you. And then he said, you know, it's so funny, my daughter is 45, and she has a best friend who's had eight kids. EIGHT KIDS. And she looks just like you, she's skinny as can be and you can't tell at all she's had eight children. But then my youngest, she's had one kid and...at this point, he gestured around his body, making the universal signal for "not thin" and made a sound like a hot air balloon being inflated. A comical WHOOSH. I looked at him and said, "well yeah, carrying a baby does that to you, it's an unforgiving process and it's hard on the body." And he said, "exactly, and it's so sad that she's just so big now while people like you and my daughter's friend get to stay so thin even when you've had so many kids." I frowned a little and said, "why is it sad?" And he looked at me for a moment and replied, "well, when you're beautiful, you're beautiful. And that's it. If you're born beautiful, you're beautiful you're whole life, no matter what happens to you, or how many kids you have. So that's why it's sad for her. But you and my daughter's friend are so lucky! You're both gorgeous!"

I felt...I felt weird. I know he was complimenting me...like...skinny? Come on. Of all the things people accuse me of being, thin has never been one of them. In the moment I felt myself trilling inside at the compliment on my figure. I have worked my whole life to be seen as...if not thin...slender adjacent. I felt instantly pleased, and I felt pleased at him insinuating that I've been gorgeous my whole life. Which is objectively untrue, but I felt pleased jut the same. But I came off of that high really quickly as I realized what it was he was saying about me, what it was he was saying about his daughter, and what I could pretty easily hone in on as his central thesis. He kept talking. My face must have been obviously frowning or making some kind of face that showed I wasn't appreciative of what he was saying, because he switched gears. Well, sort of. He stayed in the complimentary gear, but stopped talking about other people in relation to me. 

"You know, your husband is a lucky son of a bitch." Oh. My face still hadn't moved, I felt myself frown a little harder. I was obviously actively frowning now. 

"Do you tell him that every day?" 

"No I do not."

"Well, you should! Does he know that if you weren't as beautiful as you are, he'd have nothing?"

"Well I'm not sure that's true?"

"No it is! And you need to remind him of that EVERY DAY! You tell him, you say that I AM BEAUTIFUL AND YOU NEED TO REMEMBER!"

"I will do my best."

"Ok, now you take care now, baby, have a nice day!"

"Thank you, you as well."

And I got into my car and drove off. And I felt strange. 

I wrestled with myself about several things. First of all, I know him calling me 'baby' was not lascivious. It felt very paternal, it wasn't a come on. I've had enough people call me baby that I can tell the difference. People of all genders. I'm actually not that upset that he called me baby. I am not making excuses for him when I say that he was just being genuinely friendly with me, and he wasn't trying to be fresh. But...I wish I had felt ok in the moment to say, "oh, you don't need to call me baby, my name is Ondrea. Lovely to meet you". I felt panicked and unhappy and couldn't think of that, though. All I could think of was being socially polite. Secondly, I know he was trying to make me feel good by saying my husband is a lucky man, but it didn't make me feel good at all. It made me feel like my worth is merely decorative. I could be a fucking heinous cunt, Wayne has no idea who I am as a person. A heinous, bossy cunt that steals from my husband and cheats on him all day long. I would like to think that yes, Derek is pretty lucky, but not because I'm gorgeous. As established, I do not think I am. What I think makes Derek lucky is that I'm a good partner, I'm smart enough and funny enough to talk to for extended periods of time, and I care about him. We share interest, we have a great time together, I'm relatively patient. None of Derek's luck in having me as a partner, in my mind, is related to how I look. And it feels absolutely fucking WILD to have a stranger tell you that you are nothing more than window dressing. 

Of course, as I drove the fifteen minutes home, I was able to properly put how I felt into words that I should have said. Responses I wish I had been able to process immediately so I could have said what I wanted to say. It's frustrating to not be able to get everything right in the moment. 

Everyone's a feminist until there is a spider around

 Of the ways I would describe myself, "petty" would be in the top ten adjectives. Not because I'm especially petty, mostly because I'm pretty fucking bland and I'm not sure there are ten adjectives to describe me, and because I have done petty things a few times in my life, petty makes the top ten. 

I am usually only petty if provoked, rarely am I going out of my way to fuck with someone just because. For instance, my eldest's father and I got into an argument, as we did constantly. Because he was older than me, and had a shitload of power in the relationship that I couldn't match, the ends of our arguments usually left me emotionally drained, in hysterics, and looking for revenge. Rhyann's dad is older than I am, so at the time, I was 19 and he was 26. There isn't much leverage a 19 year old has on a grown ass man, especially one that made it clear that all of the money was his and he kept her housed and fed. I had to get creative with my pettiness, so I did. This time in particular, I took all of his video game discs and hid them in places he'd never, ever find them. I hid them in my daughter's diapers, I hid them in the back pockets of my jeans, I hid a few of them in the front pockets of shirts he no longer wore. And it drove him fucking NUTS. He couldn't find them, and I let them sit where they were for a week. I relished in that absolutely. I eventually put them back, but I loved watching him tear the apartment upside down to find games he was never going to find. 

On the petty scale, it isn't that high, I guess. It felt good, and it frustrated him in ways that I couldn't financially, or verbally, so it served a purpose for me. 

We had a cat named Camp that loved me, loved Rhyann, and HATED her father. Hated him so much that if Chris left his clothes on the floor, Camp would seize the moment and piss all over them. If Chris and I would argue, I would wait until he went to bed or went to play games, and then I would throw his clothes on the floor for Camp to pee on. Imaginative? No. Satisfying? Absolutely. 

As a more mature woman of 37, I have gotten better at using my words to discuss why I'm frustrated at any given partner I've had, so while my opportunities to be petty have been numerous, my desire to be petty has almost completely disappeared. I had a few moments with Dan where I did petty shit, but they really barely register (I think the last thing of note I did to Dan was spell his new girlfriend's name incorrectly on purpose. And that was rude to HER, which was not my intention, she did nothing wrong, and I recall admiring her for her ability to tell Dan what she expected from him. It made me look small, but I suppose...that's pettiness for you?). I don't remember doing anything petty to Allen, though I'm sure I did. If he were still here, I would ask him. 

I haven't done much that's petty to Derek, not that I haven't had cause. But we were driving yesterday, and I recalled the time I hid the cake pans in his backpack because I couldn't allow him the satisfaction of being correct. 

Back when we lived in Texas, I wanted to bake a cake. It was an occasion of some kind, I can't really recall, but I couldn't find our cake pans. I yelled to Derek that we needed to go to Target, ad he asked me what for. I said, "I want to bake a cake and we have no cake pans!" I had been searching all over our kitchen cabinets for them and had seen neither hide nor hair of them. I checked everywhere. Twice. Derek yelled back that we had three, and we didn't need any new ones. The fuck we didn't, the cake pans were not there, what was I supposed to bake the cake in??

Instead, I slammed my way through the cabinets for a third time, making sure my displeasure at Derek was evident in the loud bangs and clangs I made while "searching" for the cake pans I already knew weren't there. I screamed back to him, "THEY ARE NOT HERE. YOU BETTER COME LOOK FOR THEM SO YOU CAN SEE I NEED NEW PANS, AND THEN YOU TAKE ME TO TARGET."

And when I finished my triumphant yell, so sure in myself and my skills of a searcher that the cake pans were not there, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Three smug little cake pans, nestled into each other in a tender bakeware embrace, in a recess I swear I had clanged my way angrily through not moments before, and it had been free of cake pans. 

What was I going to to? Admit I was wrong? Like a monster? I live in that house!

So I arrived at the only rational conclusion: I had to hide those pans, and fast. I scanned the kitchen as quickly as I could, and stopped my eyes on the laundry room. I quickly got up, opened the doors, and saw Derek's old backpack, hanging up on the wall, a light smatter of dust covering it like a gross promise of Derek's ignorance of its existence. Perfect. 

I stuffed the cake pans into his backpack, zipped it up, and silently closed the laundry room doors. I yelled to Derek again, "ARE YOU GOING TO COME LOOK FOR THESE CAKE PANS OR NOT??" with all of the righteous anger of someone who is very very obviously in the wrong. He came out, couldn't find them for obvious reasons, and after about twenty minutes of swearing up and down that we had cake pans, we took me to Target where I bought brand new ones. 

Years later, when we were packing to leave, he found the cake pans and was VERY puzzled as to why they were in his backpack, hung up in the laundry room. Upon finding them, he let out a triumphant, "HA! I KNEW we had cake pans!!" Which was the fucking EXACT thing I had been hoping to avoid by hiding the fucking things in the first place. I foiled myself by not removing them later and donating them to a thrift store. Mother. Fucker. 

Petty may be in the top ten adjectives list, but unfortunately, so is "bad at being wrong".

Nobody expects....Misssterrrrrrr CHEESE!!!! Cleveland, Ithaca, and Chicago: Day Fourteen: There and back again

So this was the day of the trip that we returned home. It technically is part of the trip, but it was just a lot of driving. I DID document, though, so it deserves a small blog post.

We took Rhyann to the airport in Chicago super early in the AM, leaving Alex to sleep. We came back, took a bit of a nap, then packed up and drove to STL, where we stopped for lunch at Southern. 

The gateway to the west.

The gateway to THE TASTE. This is Southern, a place Derek had been wanting to try for a long time, but we always seem to go to Chili Spot or Salt and Smoke, two places I know I can eat in STL. This time that wouldn't be a problem. I ate a pretty filling breakfast on the way to STL, and I was planning on eating when we got back home. So we stopped for Alex and Derek. 

Yup. I for sure look like shit. I was tired and road weary and I'm not nearly as good looking as Derek. 

Look at the crisp on that!!!

Alex wearing her newest shirt!

Enjoying the mac and cheese. 

Derek really enjoyed Southern. We went back a couple of days ago, actually, and he was not as enamored, but obviously we'll give it two more tries. If it fails consistently, it's no longer a go to for fried chicken for Derek. 

This is one of my favorite churches in STL. I hate that I am so anti religion, but such a fan of the aesthetic of religious buildings meant for large groups of people to gather in a grandiose setting. Look at that fucking building. 

And look at this one. Look at that!!!

Fucking stunning. I hate everything about it BUT the aesthetic. The aesthetic is fucking tits. 

After we got home and unpacked, I wanted to get a photo of all of the booze we bought. This, friendos, is almost 600 dollars in out of state goodness. 

My favorite part of returning home is sinking into my bed and snuggling my critters, but this go around, THIS was my favorite part of returning home:

And now, for real, that's all she wrote. This trip is in the bag, fully logged. I would have done a far more detailed job had I stuck to it and finished before school started. My memory would have been fresher, more photos would have gone in because I would have recalled their importance instead of just leaving them out. So perhaps this is for the best?

Until the next one, bitches. 

Nobody expects....Misssterrrrrrr CHEESE!!!! Cleveland, Ithaca, and Chicago: Day Thirteen

 And we made it! Our last day in Chicago, and pretty much the last real day of the trip. Rhyann would be flying back home out of Chicago bright and early on day 14, and while Derek and I had initially planned on taking Alex around the city to see things like the bean, we opted to just go back home. So this will be the last update for this trip, which means I finished logging the entire thing and it only took....six fucking months. 

Back to the show!!

Today was Field Museum day, and I think this was my favorite day of them all. I really love the Field Museum, though I have a very complicated relationships with museums as a whole. I talked with the kids about it a LOT, on the way to the museum, and as we wandered through the exhibits. How so much of the things on display are stolen. How it's wonderful that the hall dedicated to indigenous people in the americas credits the proper groups of people, and mentions that the artifacts we have access to are the spoils of rape and genocide and terrorism and white supremacy, that it's pretty fucked up they only made white people and museums as a whole accountable in that one hall. That right next door, there are thousands of items just like the ones in the indigenous exhibit that are not credited, are not listed as stolen. Are not making us as viewers accountable. The kids and I had a lengthy conversation about that through several of the halls before their interest waned and I lost steam at talking to kids that were far more engaged in the cool shit on display. It's a hard line to walk. 

Anyway, here are my hundreds of photos.

Walking up to the Field Museum! I was so excited. It was such a beautiful day, nice and cool. I had my kiddos with me, my hubbins with me, life was fucking grand. 

Look at these little wonders! All grown and amazing. Still children, but that will  never change to me. They'll always be my babies. 

I'm sure there was a point to me taking a photo of the crosswalk to get to the museum, but I do not remember it all these months later. 

The whole crew, getting ready to experience all of the wonder and amazing of the field museum!! I was most excited about the galleries of specimens. I love seeing dead shit nailed to fancy posts. 

Alex wanted a picture of her and Rhyann under the pride flag. I was happy to oblige.

See? These shouldn't be there. It's weird to be so grateful to see such things, and so angry that I pay to see such things, and equally angry that these things are in a place where people that the culture doesn't belong to can gawk or ignore. I don't know how to balance that. I think the answer is honestly not to go to museums. 

I appreciated this entrance into the hall for indigenous knowledge, but...it felt disingenuous. 

As did this:

But I invite you all to take a gander at the things I took photos of in the gallery:

The hall of indigenous knowledge and acknowledgement pops out here, with totem poles that were similarly acquired. I asked Rhyann and Alex to find even one acknowledgement in here about how these items came into the hands of the museum...neither of them could find anything. We had a discussion about how acknowledging the sins in our history is crucial, but when you do it just for accolades and optics, as the Field Museum is doing, it feels cheap, tawdry, and like you're being patronized. Which, let's be honest...we are. 

When world's collided my fucking titty.

My oldest, getting their learning on:

My youngest, taking in the calendar that filled me with bemused dread when I was her sibling's age:

Oh, you! I remember being Rhyann's age and having full on freak outs about cataclysms while being fully aware that the idea behind the Mayan Calendar being prophetic of society's downfall was absolutely absurd, if not completely fucking racist (the idea of the mythical other never applies to white people, does it? Right. Because we're fucking racist shitheads).

The hall of the Americas pops out into the Fresh Squeezed Science gallery, where all of us had a smashing good time playing around with al

Here's Derek, checking out the white possum that I think was named Rick. Or Ross. It had some R name that I can't remember. 

Alex, taking the "what animal are you?" test that all of us took!

I was WAY off! The white possum's name is Shiro! Rick, Ross, Shiro, they're all the same name essentially. Right? Right. 

Here's Rhyann taking the animal test!

Everyone wanted to visit Shiro!

Rhyann was a platypus on the animal test. 

I was a skunk. That tracks, let's be real.

I  have a book called Inside the Lost Museum that I always think of when I see bird specimens on display. 

After the fun of the fresh science room, we headed off to Jurassic Oceans. 

Now. 

If you're wondering why this travel series has been called "Nobody expects...misterrrrrr CHEESE!" it's because as we wandered through this exhibit, a very enthusiastic little kid had been hollering all manner of funny things, and while I generally do not enjoy when kids are noisy, this particular kid was a riot. Their [arent was not as enthralled as I was, so the little kid was told to pipe down as to not disturb other museum visitors. The little kid looked pretty crestfallen at not being able to marvel and exclaim their joy for the whole museum to hear, but this kid also had a bunch of spunk. Because as loudly as they could whisper, immediately after being told to hush up, they shimmied their little shoulders and announced, "Nobody expects....mister CHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESE!" and then off they dashed, to surprise us all. And they were right. I had not been expecting Mister Cheese. 

Anyway, here's Jurassic Oceans. 

Wild Color was next, and I really loved this exhibit, except for the lights. They were really harsh on my poor, sensitive eyes, and I had to shield my eyes a lot. I think I actually put my sunglasses on about a third of the way through the exhibit. I still loved it, though!

Rhyann is regal and ready in red!!!

Alex is youthful and adorable in yellow!!! 

As a note, I did want to use alliterative words here like I did for Rhyann. Rhyann has the added bonus of their name starting with the same letter as the color, and Alex doesn't, but I have a bone to pick with google. When I asked for positive adjectives that start with Y (all I could think of was youthful), I was sent to a page that suggested the words "yapping", "yearnful", "yuletide", "yeasty", and "yeast-like". I'm not sure if I need to reframe my ideas of positive, or if that website does. Jury is out. 

Rhyann and Derek checking out Rhyann's boots glowing in the ultraviolet light!

Alex's BTS bracelets had a similar glow, which thrilled Alex to no end.

I loved that this room shared the same aesthetic as Alex, and so did she. 

BEAUTIFUL PLUMAGE. 

After wild color, it was lunch time. Luckily there was a Chicago hot dog cart at the front of the museum. Derek ordered hot dogs for the kids (they sat and ate them under a tree in front of the car, a very shady and lovely picnic spot), and then fully housed his hot dogs in the car with me. I  had none hot dogs, for obvious reasons.

I loved the field of flowers out front!

Thank you for doing the bare minimum, I suppose. Now do better. 

I was daydreaming about a photoshoot in front of the building. It's absolutely dreamy, and I envy photographers who get to shoot here.

THE GEM ROOM. I was most looking forward to taking Rhyann to the gems, rocks, and minerals section of the museum. This is just going to be an ass ton of photos. This is maybe 1/5 of the displays, maybe less, and it's all of the stuff that I thought was the prettiest. I took videos of everything being sparkly...all of these years and I'm still Jeremy...but I won't upload them. 

Rose THOUGHT she threw this shit overboard like a selfish ol' bitch at the end of Titanic. Joke's on her! 

I deeply covet these rings. DEEPLY. COVET. 

For when you want to make your revenge STYLISH and EXPENSIVE. You would pronounce it Ray-vahhhnjjsh. 

These fucking hanging decorations killed me. I love them so much, I want to incorporate them into studio space.

Alex had a bit of an overstimulation meltdown early on into the day, and it was hard for her to keep herself together. It frustrated Derek, but I was fine to keep slow and steady with her so she could still enjoy the museum, but on her terms. 

This museum really is beautiful. So spacious! It needs all the room it can manage to house its stolen and ill gotten artifacts. 

This is another favorite exhibit of mine, the Cyrus Tang Hall of China. No need to note my conflicting feelings, I've mentioned them several times. I just love all things China. I wish I had taken more opportunity to learn about where my grandfather came from FROM him instead of piecing things together with the small amount I know about where in China he was born, and what happened to where he was from. Other than that, I don't know very much for sure, everything is just an overall appreciation for China. 

A pi ying show! Alex and Rhyann stopped to enjoy the shadow puppetry. It was quite beautiful.

My tinctures!

Look at how delicate and beautiful. The talent and artistry just blows my mind. 

Have...have they ever SEEN a peach?

I REALLY fucking loved this teapot. 

And I loved this separation installation. I definitely want something like this in my studio.

We really had nowhere left that was mandatory to see except....DINOSAURS, MOTHER FUCKERS!!! The exhibit wasn't CALLED that, obviously, but we saved the best for last. 

WE ARE RESPLENDENT. 

Uh oh! A storm was a brewin'! But not really. It was just kinda overcast. 

I'm sure like, seven people in the world have seen The Prophecy 3 (I actually love that movie. It's so fucking bad, but I have a huge soft spot for how unintentionally hilarious it is), but this reminded me of the dead angel in the desert. 

SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUE!!!!!!!!!!

I think Derek was more excited than the kids were to see Sue. I loved how happy he was to be here!

EXTRA EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT! FIELD MUSEUM EXCLUSIVE!!! It's science clickbait!

Well. Thanks for nothing, Hogwort. 

It was getting near closing time (whoops, we had planned on hitting up the art museum, but...yikes), and they were starting to set up for some sort of gala. We thought it might have been a wedding, but I think we determined it was a graduation ceremony for a college. 

Everyone! Michael Jackson is thriving in the Egypt section of the Field Museum! Heehee! Shamon!

Obviously I needed to keep this logged for later. I have eight cats, and I care for several outdoor kitties. Gotta  keep my vet costs as low as possible.

Here's Derek, checking out all of the wood in the Hall of Botany or whatever it's called. Being wistful and daydreaming about a heist for his woodshop, I imagine.

And that was pretty much it from the museum. We went into the gift store, because you're obligated to, and after wandering around for a little bit, we spotted Field Museum alcohol. 

Well. Clearly we had to try them. They had them in small bottles, and big bottles. The small bottles came in a sampler box, so we bought that, and then drank them on the steps of the field museum like really curious alcoholics with a thirsts for numbing our emotions AND knowledge:

And....they were actually really fucking good. So good that we went in and bought the three full sized bottles of each. A rye, a gin, and a vodka. We weren't expecting to add more liquor to our already plentiful booze larder we acquired on the trip, but oh well. 

And then it was food time again. Derek loves dim sum, so we headed back to Chinatown. Rhyann had never had dim sum, so we were thrilled to take them for their first try. Alex didn't want to eat anything there, I couldn't really eat anything there (though I did have a bite of chicken foot, turnip cake, and a small nibble of their egg roll, because Derek said it was wonderful), but this was all for Derek and Rhyann. 

....he was irritated that I was documenting everything.

Derek said the beef with broccoli was tops bloopy. We ended up bringing this to Alex for her dinner. 

Look at those potstickers. Perfection.

UNGFFGHGHGHGH. The pillowy, delicate goodness!!!! Packed with char siu!!! 

I thought these were actually a little greasy and not worth the bite I wasted on them, to be honest. 

The chicken feet, however. Not soggy, not gelatinous, they were excellently prepared. 

Now THESE, on the other hand. They were exactly the egg roll Derek and I have been searching for since China Doll in Texas. And these are a much closer drive at six hours instead of eleven. Fuel economy win!

I love that they're so willing to try new food!!! 

These turnip cakes were absolutely heavenly. I wanted to smash all of them into my face, but alas. I could not, and did not. 

I was so sad we didn't have time to walk around and go into all of the bakeries and things, I would have loved to grab some things to take home, but Rhyann had to leave super early in the morning. 

Look at these blues. The cornflower blue of an oncoming storm is one of my favorite colors in the world. 

I obviously went to Veggie House for the last time of the trip. I literally at there every night, despite Derek bringing me home Nepal House the first night we were in Chicago. Did I want to eat that? Yes. But I wanted Veggie House more. This avocado salad? SO simple, but I dream about it constantly. I have yet to be able to replicate it at home. 

My egg tofu? Wondrous. I do sometimes buy egg tofu at Olive Supermarket, my favorite place in STL, but I can't get it as perfectly crisp and delicious as Veggie House does. I actually JUST bought some egg tofu last weekend, I think I'll make some tonight. 

And that, folks, is all she wrote on the trip to Cleveland, Ithaca, and Chicago! I did lie a bit, though. I took some photos on our day we returned home, so I will do a returning home post, but it'll be far more brief, with far fewer photos, than these last few blogs. 

I did it!!!! I finished a trip blog!!! Now if I could just go back and finish Big Island and our last NOLA trip. The only trip I haven't done in here is our North Carolina trip, but I wanted to spend more time actually HAVING that trip, because it was the first time I was seeing my oldest child in sixteen years, and it wasn't in me to document that, I just wanted to live it. It was a great trip, would have been a blast to write up, but I was so glad I got to be 100% in those moments instead of worrying about taking photos. 

My dad and Caryn will be coming here next year at the time we normally take our trip, so I'll document that as a trip of sorts, but I secretly have my heart set on taking a short jaunt with the kiddos to NOLA after my dad and Caryn leave. I think Rhyann and Alex would love it. I'm kind of pricing it out, because I know Derek will freak out as I promised that we wouldn't take any trips until our big, huge trip in 2024....that one is one I'm super nervous about documenting, but also super thrilled about the challenge of blogging. 

Anyway. We'll see how 2023 shakes out for trips, but I expect Derek will reject the jaunt to NOLA, as 2024 is going to cost us an arm and a fucking leg. Maybe three sets of legs. It's going to be an absolutely EPIC trip, though. I am so fucking excited to start officially laying out plans with my dad and Caryn in a few months!!!!