Three Weeks In…

The hard part about all of this is, you think you notice a pattern, and then baby switches it up on you. She’ll sleep through diaper changes one day (awesome!), then scream through them the next (damn!). For a couple of days, she was nursing for about 20 minutes on each boob, then 2 days later was doing 10-minute spurts. She certainly is keeping us on our toes, and it’s a constant learning process to say the least.

I’ve started walking the hill regularly and working squats back into the exercise routine. I lost about 9 pounds after giving birth, and weighed about 132 pounds in the first couple days after returning home from the hospital. I’ve been eating normally and lost another 7 pounds over the next 3 weeks. 16 down, 14 more to go. Yet, all the weight loss in the world won’t do anything for my angry stretch marks, which are worse on my left side because Little V threw most of her weight on that side when I was pregnant. It’s amazing how they seemingly developed overnight. I had not a single stretch mark up to week 38; they seemingly appeared out of nowhere and then exploded with the fury of a thousand suns.

I started this post a week ago, and I write this now, I realize stretch marks were the least of my problems. Late last week, I developed mastitis, and had all kinds of horrible symptoms like terrible breast pain, body aches, chills, hot flashes, and a low-grade fever. I’ve never received a flu shot because I honestly cannot remember the last time I had the flu, and this experience confirmed my decisions. They say mastitis causes flu-like symptoms, and I felt weak and horrible in a way that felt quite unfamiliar. I was like oh shit, is this what the flu feels like? What the fuck. All I wanted to do was pound ibuprofen and sleep, but Little V wanted to feed nonstop from 8:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. that night and I definitely cried.

Fortunately, antibiotics acted quickly. I took the first dose at 9:00 p.m. and felt better by Saturday morning. Just in time for an old friend’s wedding reception/anniversary party. This is a friend with whom I’ve made trouble since sophomore year of college, and I had been looking forward to this celebration for some time. The event was held at Syrah, where I had spent many a drunken night, e.g. Halloween, New Years Eve, birthdays, and plenty of times for no particular reason, including one night during law school when I took too many tequila shots and fell asleep briefly in the adjoining parking lot at the end of the night.

In what seemed like a wonderful alignment of lucky stars and good teamwork, my dad was able to watch Little V at a friend’s hotel room only 2 minutes walking distance away from the party venue, Little V caught onto bottle feeding after having been introduced to it just 2 days prior, I felt much better, and we were able to make an appearance and celebrate. I fed her in our friend’s hotel room right before we left, and Husband left the reception an hour in to bottle feed her. All in all, it was a highly successful evening.

The Week

Monday she woke up still drunk at 11:30 and called people to confirm her friend’s brother had indeed showed up at her ex-boyfriend’s door and together they finished the Johnny Walker Red, spiked a carafe of orange juice at Denny’s with cheap vodka, the color of light sunshine for a heavy heart, bottled oblivion. They stumbled around the lake until the sun came up and she would not see the brother until her friend’s wedding over a decade later, when she was slower and less angry. She was not old enough to have hangovers but the day was restless and heavy and she let it slip by at Vincent’s house in the form of a horror movie; 10 years later the plot would suddenly surface in her mind, while the name of the film remained elusive.

Tuesday she complained of transience, and dreaded Los Angeles’s siren song of hazy nights and rushed minutes. She declared selfishness a virtue some 12 years before she read Ayn Rand’s so-titled essay. Ex-boyfriends fed her conceit and let her talk up storms of emptiness as cigarette smoke floated by on the cafe patio. The day was gray, and the skinny blond on telly condemned the rest of the week to rain. Her friend came by wearing an expensive pea coat and she vaguely felt she would like a boyfriend who favored pea coats.

Inner Senses.

Wednesday, she wore angora and hoped it had not necessitated the killing of rabbits. She misplaced her journal and thought she might die without it. She was frantic and tried to steal books at the bar, but Chad stopped her. A Georgian told her Southern Californians were cold, suspicious, and self-involved. She laughed and told him to get used to it. She left the bar with Tuesday, put her hands around his neck, and afterwards her hands smelled like boy.

Thursday, she skipped Astronomy class because whether the white-haired, bearded man’s description of burning blue stars and fiery planets was fascinating or painfully dull was always a gamble. She watched Tuesday sleeping next to her and imagined swift irrationality stirring and boiling over like coffee. She slipped out of his bed. Her temporary preoccupation paired well with the pulsing in her head and she walked slowly to work.

Friday, her ex-boyfriend lectured her about being devious and self-centered but she only cared for her coffee and bagel. He left her on the patio in the rain and her prideful, clear nights opened the skies and gave way to the heaviest deluge, despondent clouds, and wet wretchedness. A stranger, a Geology major, shared his umbrella with her and she was grateful as she watched the sloppy crystals fall out of the sky, blurring her vision. When the kind Geologist and his umbrella left, she considered her numbness and her alcohol-based romance: 3 parts booze, 1 part unspecified attraction, drowned in slate.

Saturday, she ran in the rain while thin shadows of trees chased her. The city was drowned in the angry tears of some heartbroken god and it came down so violently she could barely see. At night, after the torrents receded, she sat on a large rock, hiding under a tree, and waited for him, her toes grazing a pool of ivy. He came stumbling around the corner shortly, and she remembered that when she thought she’d lost her journal she felt she would die, her trite thoughts floating among the unknown, abandoned in the corner of a bar, pages disintegrating and burning in golden whiskey, but her friend had sneered.

She blinked, she melted, she slept soundly in his bed, and it was Sunday again.


i was getting close

content rolling on the counter at the community pool

fleshy limbs on pleasant concrete sipping a milky mixer scrolling down my phone for people to call

boiling alive in the jacuzzi alongside people who might be my neighbors

i can smell the chlorine on my skin when i move and remember

i came home to pound out old furies

to attempt to chat incoherently with immortal lovers

she’s floating next to me, equally bored, suggesting names of acquaintances to rope into drinking with us

some boy who will undoubtedly grope us before the night is over

some old creep who has children our age

then my father calls and says

she is dead

Beer Tours With Uber – The Best Idea Ever

Remember when beer tours used to be expensive? It’d involve a shuttle full of people, a tour guide, stops at 3 breweries or so, maybe 4 beers worth of drinks, and cost around $70 a person. They were fun, but sort of on the pricey side, and there was rarely any option to customize your own brewery route without paying exorbitant amounts of money.

But now, there’s Uber. Aside from coming pretty close to solving the problem of drunk driving, Uber has also made brewery tours much cheaper and more convenient.

A few weekends ago, we got together a group and decided to make our own brewery tour. We hit up Arcana first. Arcana was formerly Fezziwig’s Brewing a few years ago, until Boston Beer Company (Samuel Adams) threatened them with legal action. Boston Beer Company has an annual seasonal beer they put out called Old Fezziwig Ale, which isn’t bad. I’ve done some trademark work in the past, and I’m sure Samuel Adam’s lawyers know what they’re doing, but as an ethical matter, I’m not sure why Samuel Adams is entitled to some brand monopoly on the name of a Charles Dickens character. Their behavior in picking on a small brewery is more apt for comparison to Scrooge than Fezziwig. Bah humbug to that.

Arcana makes some great beers. I think I probably liked every single one I tried (pictured above).

Next, we hit up On-The-Tracks, which was not initially on the route we planned. However, it was in the same complex, so the thought was – might as well. In hindsight, maybe might as well not have. I’d been here before and had a relatively decent experience, but this time was somewhat different. An order was mixed up. There might have been an overcharge. The man at the bar did not seem very pleased with our existence, and this was surely before anyone was really drunk, so I don’t think it was us. But here’s a picture of us being pleasant despite leaving a somewhat unpleasant beer experience:


Our last stop was Barrel Harbor. After that, we Ubered home for a night cap(s) and some pizza. Total Uber fare split between 8 people was minimal, and we had the flexibility of picking out all the breweries we wanted to visit.

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A Tail Of Two Cats, And A Lot Of Beer Part II


It’s Friday night. It’s Friday night! Again! Friday nights are always like this. The strangers arrive in waves, and the incessant doorbell chime grieves me. I wish they would stop coming. The weekend always comes again so quickly, and the people appear and here it is again, loud noises, slurring speech, drunken mess in the living room and I can’t get Mum or Dad’s attention for hardly more than a minute the whole night. It’s frightening and crass, these weekend nights. Everyone makes me so nervous, though I don’t know about what. I just cannot relax on these weekend nights.

Mum and Dad forgot to give me the Buspar (anti-anxiety medication) today! That’s what drinking does; it causes rational people to forsake their sense of decency and responsibility, though to be completely fair, I don’t like the medication anyway. But the point stands, as I quite dislike drunkenness, and cannot stand the presence of so many people at such high volumes, so I sit upstairs and watch silently from behind the safety of the banister. I wish Mom or Dad would just come up briefly and say “hi.” It agitates me to no end – oh my, does Mum really need another IPA? Does Dad really need to have that Porter? My god, this is interminable!

When they stay at home, they raise hell all night and grate my nerves for hours until I wonder if I’m indeed an American house cat, or a prisoner at Guantanamo Bay. When they go out to bars or clubs, they come home so late, at an ungodly hour, and follow me around the room trying to pet me with their grubby drunken hands. I cannot stand it. They make a big deal out of their variety of craft beers, but I do not believe this is a worthy or proper endeavor of any sort. Grown people voluntarily drinking this abominable stuff, and growing loud and silly. And they think I’m the one with the mental problems. It should not be permitted. Lord have mercy on the individual who invented this devil-juice.

Oh, my god! What was that? Oh, only the doorbell… again….  I just don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. My sister is not supportive at all. She is transparently obsequious, taking interest in the different types of their sinful drinks, making her way from one friend to the next, peering at everyone coyly, nuzzling up to the boys.

She’s disgusting. She’s a disgusting, cheap, little slut, and she’s cruel to me. Her antics have been a severe source of apprehension and even oppression for me. The humans don’t see through her sly charm, but oh but how she torments me heartlessly when they are not around! She’s claimed certain parts of the bed as “hers” and becomes aggressive if I approach, as if she owns the place! Dad originally came to the animal shelter for the sole purpose of adopting me. She was a mere afterthought. He happened upon her and she of course easily deceived him with her saccharine ploys, so he ended up coming home with two cats. Immediately after we arrived at our lovely new abode, she set to work claiming laps, chairs, spaces as “hers.” It’s almost painful to think about it… I know Mum suspects Sister is this way when no one is watching, but alas, it is hard for anyone to conceive of this, as she is so small and delicate, while I’m larger – a bit overweight (yet another source of constant angst for me!)

How they all clearly love my sister, as she moves from one lap to the next. Oh, I’m not at all bitter because that’s not my nature, but it hurts! She lingers in the lap of the boy she likes a lot. She conjures up quite a bit of her malicious charm for him. The blond one turns itchy and red near my sister, but one plaintive look from that brazen trickster and the blond one reaches out to gently scratch her wretched cheek. I don’t understand any of this. Aside from my vulgar sister, honestly, who likes being molested by strangers? Oh, I could die right now. When does it end? 

Blast the IPA’s, porters, and Belgians. I’m going to go hide in the bedroom for the rest of the night.


If You Think Intoxicated Sex Is Rape, You’re Probably A Sexist Pig

Rape is a controversial issue, and the definition of “rape” is anything but clear. A reasonable definition for rape necessitates the use of force and/or lack of consent. After all, cajoling someone or playing on their weaknesses to convince them to take some sort of action shouldn’t be criminal, assuming it doesn’t involve injuring any non-consenting third parties.

For example, if a friend purposely drives by an In-N-Out and successfully induces you to break your diet and eat a Double Double, you were not physically violated into eating a burger against your consent. If your buddy convinces you to strip naked and go swim in the ocean against your better judgment, you have not been “forced” to go skinny dipping. If your pal sweet talks you into dropping them off at an airport two hours away against your preference, you have not been “forced” to take them to the airport.

This is because none of these scenarios involved aggression or coercion justifying punishment, and the result does not change if one or both parties were drunk when coming to these decisions. Maybe your friend has taken advantage of your drunken state to talk you into running around naked, eat burgers, or take her to a distant airport the next morning, but it isn’t criminal, because adults are responsible for their actions, even when drunk.

For some, this may seem like common sense; yet, common sense is not always so common. A Slate article recently reported a story wherein a college woman was drunk, but was walking, talking, on multiple occasions fended off friends who attempted to take her home, and told people she was OK three times . After having sex with an equally, if not more inebriated fellow student, she reported him for sexual misconduct. The slate article goes on to explain that universities are “struggling to determine” whether a situation of this type is sexual assault, which frankly, is absurd.  Though all outward appearances, including text message evidence, was consistent with consent, the man was expelled from college.

This is not an isolated sentiment. I attended a freshman orientation program at UCLA in the fall of 2002 that featured a sexual assault presentation embodying a similar philosophy. A speaker stood in front of thousands of impressionable freshman in the incoming class and announced that sex with a drunk woman under any circumstances constituted rape. This appalled me and made me want to vomit in my mouth. I had never been drunk because I was a big nerd in high school, but the idea men were deemed intelligent enough to make decisions when drunk but women were not was just about the most sexist thing I’d heard in quite a while.

The speaker then invited feedback from the audience, at which time, a young man stood up and said, “I 100 percent agree because women are all wonderful princesses and should be treated as such.” At this point, I wanted to vomit not only a little in my mouth; I wanted to spew projectile barf all over this douchebag, the speaker, and humanity. If I had some more balls (ovaries?) at that age, I would have booed or staged a walk-out.

A person does not lose the capacity for volition or consent by being drunk per se, because impaired judgment (caused by drinking or otherwise) in and of itself is not something that should absolve people of personal responsibility. Of course, if a person is unconscious, he/she is physically incapable of any intent or consent, but otherwise, being drunk in and of itself should not negate volition or consent. Accordingly, when an intoxicated individual commits assault (or any other crime) it is no defense to claim he/she was drunk, and therefore not responsible for their actions. On the other hand, if a unconscious person rolls off a bed and hits someone, there clearly is no intent or volition.

Sex and rape are sensitive subjects, but  countless other examples indicate impaired judgment does not and should not negate volition or consent. Stupidity impairs judgment, but unless the victim is literally mentally disabled (or is a child!) it is not a crime to have sex with dumb people. Stress and sleep deprivation impair judgment, but people cannot escape the responsibility of valid contracts by claiming they had a bad day/didn’t get enough sleep and therefore did not truly consent to the terms. Money impairs judgment, but it wouldn’t seem fair to allow someone to claim rape after the fact in such a fashion – “I was impressed with her wealth, which impaired my judgment. If I hadn’t been swayed by money, I wouldn’t have had sex with her, so I was raped.”

People also don’t get out of contracts by claiming drunkenness. Very relevantly, Lucy v. Zehmer was a case wherein a bunch of drunk people were having a grand old time, and one of the drunk people, Zehmer, jotted down on a restaurant receipt, “We hereby agree to sell to W. O. Lucy the Ferguson Farm complete for $50,000.00…” Zehmer later tried to claim he was drunk and didn’t mean it, but the court upheld the contract, finding that the outward appearances pointed to a valid contract, even if Zehmer had imbibed quite a bit of alcohol.

Like with drunkenness, on the extreme end of the spectrum, there may indeed be a complete lack of consent if someone was so anxious as to be mentally ill and incapable of consent, or so tired they were actually unconscious. But until it approaches that point, the mere fact of impaired judgment in and of itself does not negate consent if outward appearances, or objective factors, indicate there was consent.

This is not to say there aren’t areas of gray, as intoxication and unconsciousness span a wide spectrum, and many situations will require a case-by-case determination. However, if someone gets drunk and is convinced into having sex, it is not rape unless there is actually some physical force or objective lack of consent. I.e. As Lucy instructs, the inquiry is not how drunk either party is; the inquiry is whether the outward appearances indicate it was consensual. As consent is not negated by impaired judgment alone, objective factors such as aggression, violence, threats, and refusals by the victim are key to the inquiry. Admittedly, consent can be difficult to define, but instead of attempting to set parameters, people have become hung up on this false belief that drinking alcohol, which is a voluntary act undertaken by adults, somehow negates personal responsibility.

To compare – people who are born stupid cannot escape contractual obligations they have made with smarter people by claiming the smarter person “took advantage” of their lower IQ. Regardless of the intelligence differential, a person attempting to avoid contractual duties is held to the same contractual standards as the rest of society. People born stupid similarly cannot claim rape when a smarter person has sex with them (thereby “taking advantage” of their “impaired judgment”). That being the case, people should not be able to deny responsibility when they make impaired decisions after voluntarily ingesting alcohol.

The fact someone regrets it the next day doesn’t mean he or she objectively refused consent the night before. The fact he/she wouldn’t have consented if sober is also irrelevant (again, see Lucy). People do all kinds of things when drunk that they otherwise wouldn’t do – that’s kind of part of the fun (and danger) of being drunk. Many people regret the frankly horrifying binge-eating they engage in with friends after a hard night drinking, but that in no way means their friends violated them and forced food down their throat.

The use of mundane examples of eating burgers and swimming naked in the ocean was not an accident. Much of this discussion revolves around the widely accepted assumption that sex is this big fucking deal. If sex were seen as an experience similar to burger eating, skinny-dipping, or contract-making, no one would be trying to argue that getting drunk negates volition/consent, or that the end result of drunk people having sex should be a prison sentence. In fact, this discussion likely would never even exist. It is for the very reason that sex is placed on a pedestal that people have found the need to create twisted logic and nonsensical rules when it comes to sex.

The reason it is a big deal is probably because as progressive as people pretend to be, a lot of them are still clinging to antiquated, oppressive, and downright stupid notions of sexuality. Monkeys fuck. Cats and dogs fuck. Goats and donkeys fuck. Cows fuck. Llamas fuck. Bugs fucking fuck. They do it to reproduce and spread genes. But when it comes to human beings, there are all these fucking rules (pun intended), and most of all if you’re a woman.

If you’re a woman and you don’t fuck anyone at all, you’re a boring old prude. If you fuck too young or fuck too many, you’re a fucking slutty whorebag. A slutty whorebag is pretty much the worst thing a woman can be. It’s much worse than being a jerk, a dick, or an annoying person. A slut/whore is like the worst thing ever. You bring shame to your family. Other women hate you. Men fuck you but think you’re disgusting (which makes zero sense by the way – if someone is so repulsive, why in god’s name would you put your dick inside?). You’re pretty much the lowest scum to ever walk the earth, reviled, denigrated, and scorned along with murderers and rapists even though you’ve hurt no one – in fact, just the opposite – you’ve probably made plenty of people quite happy.

People who drink too much or shoot too much heroin “have a problem” and are in need of therapy, sympathy, support, and love, but god forbid you fuck too much – clearly, you are an immoral, soulless, wretch.

Wait, actually, the rules are not that simple. If you fuck a ton, but it’s all the same penis, you are totally cool. However, if there were many different penises involved, then you are a horrible, deranged human being. Well, if there were like 5 penises total, over a period of like 10 years, you are probably good to go. But if it was only 5 penises, but it involved two Eiffel Towers and a one night stand, you might still have a problem. It’s very, very, complicated.

This is not an excuse for false rape accusations, which are unforgivable. However, it does provide context to explain why people come up with absurd ideas like, “drinking alcohol negates consent” and “there is no such thing as consensual drunken sex.” It also isn’t surprising that if society beats into women the idea that only degenerate and terrible women are slutty or aggressive about sex, women who were drunk and made a poor decision  might have this sort of thought process: “Wait, I did what? But I’m not a depraved, abominable person! I wouldn’t have done that normally… I must have been tricked/drugged/raped…”

Slut-shaming causes women and men to make sex a big fucking philosophical/moral deal when it need not be. We are all a bunch of human beings trying to spread our DNA and our petty genes, just like cats, dogs, goats, and fucking bugs. It’s actually quite base and puerile. This is to say nothing of the fact that assuming a man has the capacity to rape when drunk, but women have no capacity for consent when drunk is paternalistic, condescending, and downright insulting to the intelligence of women. We are sentient, adults, not babies or animals. Anyone who supports the infantilization of women through culture or law in this manner is by definition sexist.

So get over it. If you drank too much and fucked some gross dude, own it. Laugh about it the next day, chastise yourself for making a poor choice if you so wish, see a doctor, and get on with it like a man would. Write about it in your journal and make him a fictional character in one of your short stories. It’s a trivial matter in the grand scheme of things, because self-respect doesn’t come from the number of dicks that have or have not been in your vagina.

If you are a man and your sister or daughter got wasted and had sex with someone beneath her, get off your judgey, Victorian, caveman-like high horse and ask yourself whether your dick, or your soul, is so clean and perfect. If you are a woman and think sluts are everywhere around you, try not to be a mega-bitch because it’s none of your fucking business anyways. If someone you know truly is having so much sex with so many people that it’s literally a mental illness or a severe problem (learn about nymphomania symptoms here), then treat them the way you would a person with any other addiction, not like an immoral waste of life.

People get drunk and do stupid shit sometimes, and some people do stupid shit all the time when sober. That’s life, and there isn’t always a rapist involved.

Giving Thanks To Beer, And Alcohol In General

Happy Thanksgiving. I’m thankful for a great many things, including friends, family, a good job, and good health. As this blog is largely devoted to beer, I am of course also thankful for beer and alcohol in general.

I met my husband while drinking. Contrary to popular belief, it is possible to be in a fraternity or sorority without having a penchant for alcohol, but that wasn’t us. We met on a rainy night in February that involved lots of drinks, apartment party hopping, and a friend accidentally lighting something on fire at one of those parties (because he was drunk, as we all were). Back in those days, I was a 19-year-old sorority girl with an unrefined palate. I was probably sipping on whatever sugary, crass, cocktails were passed my way. I will regret this poor taste for the rest of my life, but regardless, that night was the beginning of a series of fun moments, many involving more drinking.

In college and some of law school, I was a fan of Jack on the rocks. We went through a period (early twenties) when we really liked wine. We still like wine, but love craft beers above all. Beer can make a dull day glisten with unexpected delight, and can turn a boring meal into an interesting one. There are so many types and styles of beers that the excitement never ends.

When we got married about 8 years after dating, we made sure to have good beers at our wedding. We had a small keg of Piraat, a beautiful and deceptively powerful Belgian trippel by Van Steenberge, a 10.5% abv delight (his choice). My choice was Westcoast IPA by Greenflash (7.3%). We got a keg of Modelo just in case anyone had lighter preferences, but predictably, that keg was not as popular. At our wedding, people had great beers and great fun; some probably had a little too much fun. It was a night to remember, except for the guests that drank too much to remember.

Cheers to beers, cheers to love, and cheers to my husband.

I am very thankful for all of these on this Thanksgiving.