Dragonfly.

My sister Lily and I look a lot alike. Sometimes when I look at photographs, I can't tell whether I'm looking at myself or at her.

We don't fit in particularly well within our family: for me because I like boundaries and don't agree politically or religiously. And for Lily because after one semester of college, she dropped out, joined a commune, legally changed her name to Dragonfly, and now has blond dreadlocks down to her knees, as well as two illegitimate children -- this is a no-no in a patriarchal arrangement, of which I do not seem to excel. I didn't get along with Dragonfly for a long time because 1) I needed someone to blame for dysfunctional dynamics and 2) she was an addict so provided a handy scapegoat. 

But now we are friends.

It feels strange to think that the family member I now have the most in common with is named Dragonfly. My friends always roll their eyes when I call her that. But I met this trans man at an Anonymous meeting who convinced me -- without saying much at all -- that a person's name is the most important thing about them, and that calling someone by their preferred name is one of the easiest and most meaningful gifts you can give. Also, our brother helped me in this regard.

Anyway, Lily/Dragonfly and I have been on a journey to decide things for ourselves. I started seeing this woman called a "spiritual director," which is a guide in any faith tradition that helps you explore the ins and outs of your spirituality. The spiritual director gave me an assignment designed to make me examine my beliefs about God. It was very interesting. The only thing I could come up with was that God resembled the 81% of evangelicals who voted for Trump, so God was a middle-aged white person with lots of banners, flags, or postcards stuck to their fridge and an almighty belief in the flag, the dollar, and the gun. 

So mostly that exercise was a bust. 

However, Lily and I decided to take the exercise and turn it into an examination of dating, relationships, and sexuality instead. We were supposed to divide a piece of paper into 4 quadrants and in them put:

1) ideas about this topic I learned in my youth
2) ideas about this topic I currently hold
3) what my ideal version of this would look like
4) ideas about this topic from my past that are currently holding me back

Our ideas did not fit onto a sheet of paper. I wrote 4 pages and created a large poster board. Lily typed 7. It turns out we learned a lot of shit about dating, relationships, and sex. Spelled out in black and white, some of them look absolutely absurd now:

* it's your fault if a man attacks you
* you are powerful but in a dangerous way; stay covered up
* men can only think about sex; it's your job to always be in control
* a woman's role is to be a wife/mother - but only in a heteronormative, married relationship with a white, conservative male

You get the gist.

Neither of us has been very good at this. Lily tossed out the rules at 18, but it took me 4 pastor-boyfriends who never proposed to figure out that this paradigm is useless for me. It turns out I don't particularly even like children.

Me: You are not going to BELIEVE this. I went to visit my sister's new baby--

Cara: So, your niece...

Me: Okay, whatever, my niece -- in the hospital, on the day she was born because I knew Lucy would never let me forget it if I didn't. I was actually pleasantly surprised. I even skipped yoga to spend more time with the baby...

Cara: Awww!

Me: But it turns out that this is not where the expectations end!!!!!! Now Lucy wants me to come visit the baby!!!! Like, after I get off school and am heading home in the evenings!

Cara: Well, yeah. That's what people do.

Me: WHAT!? I already went to see it when it was born!!! Why am I supposed to visit it now?

Cara: **** can't stop guffawing ****

So, okay, I do not have a maternal streak. I like my nieces and nephews who are of the talking and walking age. I do not understand babies.

But the belief that really f****d us over was the one called, "Don't ever betray interest in a guy."

The belief went like this: 

Women should be modest. This means quiet, demure, unassuming, respectful, and chaste. Under no circumstances should a woman ever show interest in a man. That's what "forward" women do. (I kid you not, I got lectured alllllll the time for playing basketball with a guy who lived on our street. It would "cause the neighbors to stumble.") Our parents were of the Mike Pence variety. Our dad would not so much as poke a woman on the back, so extreme was his belief in marital chastity.

If that's the kind of thing you like or believe, have at it, I say. But it becomes problematic when you teach your daughters that expressing any interest in a person other than one's husband is wrong.

This has screwed Dragonfly and me over countless times. I remember a long time ago dating Nick, who lived 900 miles away, in NYC. I was frustrated and upset because he had gone days without calling me.

Nick: If you want to talk to me, just pick up the phone and call me!

Me: I can't. I don't want to be aggressive and forward. I don't want it to seem like I'm chasing you.

Nick: You're not "chasing" me! We're in a relationship, I'm already caught! If you want to talk to me, just call me up. 

Easier said than done. I don't know why it is so freaking hard to undo that one rule about expressing interest or desire, but it's basically been the undoing of several relationships Lily and I have had.

I've been thinking a lot about beliefs and the ideas that hold us back and no longer serve us. In a perfect world, we would look at a belief like the "Modest Woman Rule" and say, "Ah well, that's stupid, time to chuck it," and then we'd do just that.

But in reality, it's much, much harder to overcome decades of indoctrination that are all layered with misogyny and patriarchal views of what women should and shouldn't be like. It's one thing to say, "I don't believe women have to be modest and silent anymore! I'm going to express myself and my desires!" 

It's quite another to actually open your lips and learn to use your voice.

I hope one-day Dragonfly and I learn how to do this well.

 "I think it's not all down to us," she said thoughtfully last week. "I think there are also guys out there who are understanding and kind, who don't make it all about them and their masculinity."

That is easy for her to say because she found one. 

"So let me get this straight," said my friend Michelle over lunch. "DRAGONFLY has the ideal, stable relationship of the family?"

"Oh. Well... yeah, I guess," I said.

"Wow," Michelle leaned back. "Irony."

It is certainly not a mark in favor of the ways we were taught.

Instinct.

"What exactly is going on here?" Miranda said as she stared into my bedroom.

"Oh that. I'm having a mattress sale. I've sold 3 already, I think, I forget."

Miranda was over so we could shop for mattresses and sperm donors. A lot has happened this week.

First, I quit my job at Persimmon, after 5 years there.

Everyone says to trust your gut. But what if your gut is ALWAYS wrong? Then should you trust the opposite of your gut? 

I went on a bike ride several weeks ago, and I guess as an experiment, my friend let me lead the way. 

I don't know if it was a form of manipulation, experimentation, or what.

After a fork in the road where I'd turned right, he'd say, "Your gut tell you to go this way?"

"YES!" I said confidently. "I'm learning to trust my instincts! I knew this was the right way, and sure enough, it is!" I was excited; I was going to get good at trusting myself.

Five minutes later, after we hit a dead end, it turned out that my instincts were wrong. He let this happen two or three times, and each time, I experienced more and more defeat and confusion -- as well as uncertainty about my instincts and who I could trust, if not even myself :-(

So even though everything in my gut said this New Job was bad news, I took it anyway, because it is now really obvious that my instincts are wrong. I figured it was a good opportunity to test this hypothesis. 

New Job was a disaster. Whereas at Persimmon I was mostly left to my own devices, at New Job, I had ZERO freedom. I wasn't even allowed to ring out a real customer... after 20 years in retail, running the decorating classes at Pottery Barn, hosting the children's events at Pottery Barn Kids, and serving as a keyholder at Persimmon.

I was informed there were rules and expectations, too:

* When ringing out a customer, first, all items should be turned barcode side up on the counter

* then, I should ring out items from tallest to shortest, with like items together

* then, I should stack them in the Outgoing Items tray, labels all facing out

* then, I should read all the items back to the customer to make sure I had gotten everything correct

* if the customer says thank you, I should respond with "you're so welcome" not "Sure!" or "No problem!" because older customers don't like that

* At the end of the night, I should do a once-over of the store, and if I see that an is missing, I should search through the Point of Sale to see whether or not anyone sold one of those items. If not, I should immediately contact the store owners so that they can watch the video footage to see if the item had been shoplifted. I mean WTF?

* Also, when tagging merchandise, strings for labels should be cut to 6 inches

Blog world, I just could. not. even. I felt like I was in a continual, unabated state of extreme anxiety 24/7 just thinking about this job and the next time I would have to go there. I lasted 5 hours before the Universe told me to quit.

I was driving to Book Club on Thursday when my phone rang. It was one of New Job's owners. "My wife won't be able to make your training session this coming Sunday, and neither of us are comfortable putting you on the sales floor without the proper register training."

UNIVERSE.

I MEAN, AMIRIGHT!?!?!?! I'm 41 years old. You don't "trust" me to ring out a damn customer with only 5 hours (and two decades) of training under my belt?! I am not a dumb high school student! 

I gracefully quit. (Plus, Persimmon offered me a raise to come back.)

All of this leads to my big mattress sale and Miranda coming over. I no longer trusted myself to buy a mattress, so Miranda offered to help me. In exchange, I offered to help her shop for a sperm donor.

We were at Book Club talking about possible summer travel plans when Miranda told us, "I'm a maybe on the travel. I hope to be pregnant this summer."

We all stared at her.

"I'm shopping for sperm donors, and I'm working with a fertility clinic. Enough of this 'waiting for a man.'"

We stared at her some more. We are all single women.

"The Christians in my life are trying to be supportive, but they also kind of think I'm going against God and Nature."

"For fuck's sake," I yelled. "WE'RE GOING TO BE AUNTS!!!!!!!!!!!!"

That is how I ended up at the Crooked Tree with Miranda, searching the Cryobank database for blond-haired, blue-eyed children.

I found a candidate I immediately fell in love with.

"I don't know," Miranda said. "He's kind of dark."

"I don't understand why he has to look like you," I said, looking at her blond hair and fair skin. "Is it so you don't get as many ignorant questions about his paternity?"

"Yeah," she replied, defeated. "It's the one piece of advice they gave me."

I get that. The world is cruel. 

But I'm also telling you, the kid I picked was freaking ADORABLE and he was Native American. 

"I DON'T CARE, I LOVE HIM!" I told her.

After 10 minutes on hold with the Cryobank, she got through to someone.

"I'm calling about Donor XXXXXX," she said. "The vial counts are low, but that's true of almost every candidate my friend and I pull up. How many vials remain?"

(It's recommended you get 4 vials to start with.)

"We have 1 vial left for this candidate," came the answer from the other end of the line.

Miranda hung up and looked at me, "I guess he's out. There's just no way."

After another 90 minutes of searching, I said, "I don't care. If it were me, I would take that last vial. Get your other 3 vials from somewhere else. If the Universe wants this to be your kid, it will work. If not, it won't work, and one of the vials from the other donors will work. Either way, it's out of your hands and the child that's meant to be yours will be yours."

That's hard logic to argue with, my friends. Even Miranda had to agree.

All this got me thinking, though. Am I supposed to be doing this kind of thing? Did the Universe bring Miranda back into my life to set me on the path to fertility? 

My instincts say NO.

But my instincts are mostly wrong.

A Tale Told in Mattresses

Recently, someone made fun of my mattress.

To a more confident and secure person, this would have been nothing. (I am self-aware enough to know this on a purely intellectual level.) But to me, a People Pleaser and Enneagram 1, it was a signal that I should change everything in my life to appease someone else -- buy a  new mattress I cannot afford, reconfigure my shower curtains, begin shopping for a bigger TV. I am not even kidding you. When people critique something about me, my automatic response is, "I am wrong. How should I change?" 

I bought a new mattress.

I tried to get the same one I have in my downstairs room, just in a Queen and from a different vendor. At least then, I could still get my Drop points.

When the new mattress (Mattress #2) arrived, I excitedly heaved and ho'd it up my curved staircase and swore to do more cardiovascular exercises after I finally reached the top.

One week later, I knew it was a mistake to get a mattress from a brand I wasn't familiar with. I called to return said mattress...

"We cannot accept a return on this mattress. It is not under warranty," Jason from Undisclosed Mattress Vendor said.

"It IS under warranty," I assured him. "It arrived with a card that says '10-year-warranty.'" 

"MA'AM," Jason the Antagonist huffed. "You are mistaken. You cannot return your mattress!!"

I hung up on Jason. I am rude like that when frustrated.

But also, Jason was asking for it.

I sold Matress #2 on Facebook Marketplace for a $100 loss. 

I went back to the Wayfair website. I clicked on my original guest room mattress purchased a year prior. I followed the link and re-ordered the mattress in a Queen size, Drop points be damned.

Mattress #3 arrived.

One week later, after 7 sleepless nights, I contacted Wayfair. 

"You guys sent me the wrong mattress. My first mattress was a Plush. This one is a Medium...."

Wayfair apoligized. They mailed Mattress #4.

At this point, M3 is lying propped up against my bedroom wall waiting for pickup, and I am an absolute PRO at heaving mattresses end-over-end up my curved stairs. 

"I feel like this is becoming a problem," said my sister Lily.

"Yes," said my other sister, Lucy. "We have a Princess & The Pea situation going on here."

"Don't worry about it," I said breezily. "I have reordered the mattress, I am sure it's the right one this time, and now no one else is going to criticize me or it, so it's going to be just fine. I am feeling very positive this time!"

Mattress #4 arrived, and I excitedly executed my Pro Mattress Manuevers to get it upstairs. I began the 48-hour fluffing process.

Only... Mattress #4 looks like this:

ARE YOU EVEN KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW, WAYFAIR!!!? ALL I WANT IN LIFE IS A MATTRESS THAT FEELS AND LOOKS LIKE THE ONE BELOW, BUT IN A QUEEN SIZE!!!

Wayfair vowed I would receive Mattress #5 sometime later this week, but at this point, I don't honestly believe there are any mattresses out there for me.

They are either too hard and unyielding.

Or cause me great distress and pain.

Or so broken that there's no point in working with them.

"I think this is very symbolic," said Lily.

"I'm sure it is," I said, "But I do not want to think about the metaphors." 

I just want somewhere to rest.

Also, I would like to get better at saying, "Peace, Out!" to people who cannot see the person behind the mattresses... even if there are 5+ of them... :-)