Month: June 2026

The other day, someone on Mastodon posted a link to an article discussing how women are sidelined in their careers and thus devalued, economically. Of course, I can’t find the damn thing now but, essentially, the article started by sharing how a hypothetical hetero couple jointly decides that the woman has more job flexibility and therefore will stay at home and work part time when they have a child. As a freelance writer, she can do this more easily than he can. It is a mutual decision and the couple feels like they have found a fair and equitable solution.

On the surface, it does look like that. But when you dig down, since Betty (a name I just picked) is at home more, more and more of the household work becomes her burden. Not only child care, to which she originally agreed, but all the household stuff. So now, instead of spending her time taking care of the child and writing, with the rest of the house stuff waiting until the hubs comes home to share in it, she is taking care of the child and trying to sneak in writing, in-between doing everything to keep the household running (laundry, cleaning, shopping, cooking…). If she’s lucky, Bob (hubs/male partner) takes the kid after his work, “freeing” her to try, after her 8+ hours taking care of the kid, to write. However, he doesn’t do anything else but take the kid. She still has house stuff to do, etc. So, if she manages to write at all professionally, she takes on fewer and fewer freelance projects because she has too much to do otherwise.

The article then goes on to discuss the economics of it, which are appalling. Her labor is not included in GDP, for example. That labor is literally devalued. It’s infuriating on a macro scale. But it is in the singular, that is the effects in a home, which really interested me, as it has been my own lived reality.

The labor load (mental and physical) imbalance is obvious and ubiquitous, at least to the hetero women reading this. I suspect we’ve all had at least one partner who swears he’ll share the load but who ends up dropping that ball like it was hot lead. I know I certainly have. Somehow our male partners make time to ride their motorcycles or play golf with the bros, etc., and, while maybe they might mow the lawn, mostly the care of the home, inside and out, falls on the woman.

Worse yet, if the man does so much as a load of laundry (and virtually always only after being asked¹), they act like they’ve just cured cancer and should at least get effusive thanks, if not a blow job, for their efforts. In case you, male reader, don’t understand, that’s like rubbing salt into our wounds: what we do is expected and only gets feedback if we fail to accomplish it or fail to accomplish it to your standards; but you perform a “honey do” chore and expect to be praised, no matter how tiny the chore or half-assed your efforts.

I can’t tell you how many times I have lived that experience. From about the time I turned 10 until, well, the end of my last relationship, over and over and over.

Now, if the man is working outside of the home, this is still wrong, but at least it is more understandable. If he’s not there all the time he isn’t as physically available to do the work. However, this dynamic happens even when the man is available–that is, working from home. In fact, it even happens when he works from home and she works somewhere outside of the home. Basically, the home stuff still falls on her to do (or at least arrange–i.e., mental load) or it doesn’t get done.

I was thinking about this before I read the article, particularly when I took care of the neighbors’ cat, recently. My neighbors are a hetero couple with twin boys (9yo) in a small house, with a (lovely) cat. She is a private school administrator who works at the school every day; he works for a public charter school, doing social media from (mostly) home, and plays in a band occasionally. They are lovely people, liberals, very educated, seem to be quite happy, and are doing a good job with the kiddos. However, the house is a mess². The yard is a mess. They have a house cleaner who comes in once a week and even right after she³ does her (very good) job, it’s still a mess (albeit a cleaner one).

I suspect that he doesn’t do much more than the minimum and she just doesn’t fix it. She doesn’t do the mental labor or the physical. Now, I may be wrong, they may both have come from families where cleanliness stuff didn’t matter (they have lots of family visitors from both sides and it doesn’t change so, maybe?). Whatever, somehow, it works for them and they aren’t bothered by their overgrown yard⁴ or driveway full of legos or window boxes falling off the house, much less the state of their kitchen, stained sofa, or back door completely blocked with empty bags and stuff.

As for me, I have no idea how they live like that. I’m not a clean freak but, honestly, it makes me a bit twitchy with a need to make it better⁵. But, as I said, they seem a very happy lot so… I’m glad for them in that. It is their business, not mine.

As a feminist, though, I am deeply bothered that he isn’t doing more. She’s clearly the primary breadwinner and he’s at home so why is he, for example, working on his skateboarding skills rather than cleaning the kitchen sink or repairing the window boxes? They have lots of friends and must see that others do not live as they do, so why doesn’t he step up and take care of more? Is he waiting to be told, by her, to do X or Y?

Of course, if the tables were turned, if he worked out of the home and she in it, the woman would be shunned for not taking better care of the household. In fact, even in the scenario above, I think the woman still gets more blame: why doesn’t she do something/make him do something? But that it is the man…somehow he seems to get a pass.

One of the things my ex used to complain about was that I didn’t thank him enough. I don’t think he was wrong, generally⁶. But with time and space, I have come to see that sometimes I didn’t thank him because it was for stuff for which I never got thanked, throughout my life. I had been conditioned to think that doing X or Y was literally thankless work. And that was, definitely, patriarchy in the home.

In the future I hope to be mindful enough to thank people when they do the things for which I did not get thanked for doing, and assertive enough to ask for the same in return.

_________________

1. Seriously, men will often even ignore stuff right in front of them! I have had partners step over items that were meant for the laundry or to be moved into a garage and not even pick them up unless told “hey, would you carry those on your way out?” ↩︎
2. At least the open-plan living room, dining room, and kitchen are; I would never go prying into their private spaces like bedrooms and bathrooms. ↩︎
3. Note: she, the cleaner is a woman. ↩︎
4. About once a year his sister (again, a woman) comes for a visit and works on the yard the entire time she’s here. ↩︎
5. In fact, I noticed their front door rubs on the threshold and I just shimmed it for them today. ↩︎
6. That is, sometimes there were times where it was like the “you did what I asked and you expect praise” situation described above, but not always. ↩︎

A couple of weeks ago, a younger woman wearing a baby (I’m not a baby person, but that was a gorgeous kid) on her front and walking a large, gentle, shepherd-ish dog appeared at my door. She was distributing notes to the neighbors–she and her fiancé were getting married and the reception, at least, was to be at their home down the street. They are actually the newest neighbors, having bought the house maybe two months ago, so this gave me the chance to meet at least her and their child, and dog. The wedding was in a couple of weeks and they wanted the neighbors to know and to know that they would try to keep it down and close up at a reasonable hour. It was kind of them.

Today is the happy day.

This morning, I moved my motorcycle from its usual place in front of the house, to free up parking for the guests. I even swept the sidewalks and the gutter, just to make things look a bit nicer. I included them in my meditation intentions this morning, too. This is a big day for the couple and even if they have no idea about my efforts, the intention is there and hopefully they will get some good juju from it.

To be honest, I have struggled a bit about this event. I’ve wept more than a few times. Oh, it’s never been that I’m worried about the noise or parking or frankly anything about their wedding. I mean, I am super noise sensitive and expect my earplugs will get used later tonight, but if you can’t give a wedding special dispensation, you’re a dick. No, my issues are rather that her announcement put me in mind of my wedding that never was.

I was engaged to my ex. I planned on spending the rest of my life with him and, despite myself (I’m not someone who needs to get married), I was actively looking forward to being his wife. As for the wedding itself, I had spent a lot of time imagining us exchanging vows under our bougainvillea-covered, wonky arbor. I thought we would be the neighbors who threw a wedding.
But we’re not. Life happens.

Instead, here I sit near that arbor, watching their guest arrive while the steak I just cooked cools inside (to be chucked on a salad) and indulging in a rosé vesper martini.
And I am surprisingly not sad.

There is something about watching these people arrive, to celebrate their friends’/family’s love, that is greater than my feelings of loss. I am moved, in a good way.

Except for the clothes. Those mostly move me to cringe. What is it with dressing for a wedding these days?!? The guests today are in various manner of dress–from light sport coats with trousers or summery dresses to men in short-sleeved shirts and khakis or, worse, jeans. Far too many are just…ugh. The worst attired award (so far) goes to the couple in jeans and Hawaiian shirts. At first, I thought maybe that was the suggested attire (they were some of the earliest to arrive); but no, most of the other guests have managed to wear something better than flip-flops, denim and loud short-sleeved shirts.

Yes, I’m being judgy. This is a thing for me. “Casual” for a wedding should still be something better than what you’d wear to a Jimmy Buffet concert.

I had a minor heart attack when a single woman pulled up in front of my house and touched up her makeup before getting out of her car. It looked like she was wearing a white dress! Luckily, when she got out it was a very light lemony yellow or, honestly, I probably would have said something.

A few minutes later, I went to check on the neighbor cat (whom I am watching while the family is out of town) and, on my way back, a single male guest who parked in front of my house (and who was carrying garbage cans because the couple realized at the last minute that was what they forgot) smiled at me and said, “Come on down and join us!” I’m wearing a baseball-type t-shirt (no bra), ripped jeans, no makeup, and flip-flops. There is no way in hell I would show up like that. Besides, I wasn’t invited by the couple and would never crash their wedding.

So, it’s not my wedding, but it is a wedding, and I am joyful for the young family. Also, and not for nothing, I am half-wondering why the tall, salt-and-pepper-haired man asked me to join in the celebration…and did so more than once.

Every Sunday, I go to a non-denominational Buddhist temple where we recite the Heart Sutra and discuss its complex meaning. It, the sutra I mean, is a doozy: it both reinforces and completely dismantles some of the basics of Buddhist practice.

No matter what the word of the week is (we go through it word-by-word), the discussion is always interesting and thought-provoking. At sangha¹ yesterday, the word was (translated) perfect wisdom². As we shared what we thought that meant, one of us mentioned how a translation he liked used the word understanding instead of wisdom. And people then talked about how that changed what they thought about the meaning.

There was much discomfort. Some people seemed actively upset that there wasn’t a precise translation or meaning. I kind of laughed to myself because, as a student of languages, I learned long ago that language is anything but precise. It’s what we have, though, until we learn to do the Vulcan mind meld.

Earlier in the meeting, in summing up the sutra, the leader of our group mentioned how the sutra says there is nothing to attain and asked us to imagine not trying to attain anything. We constantly are trying to attain! When some of the other practitioners talked about how they were struggling to even accept that the meaning of prajnaparamita wasn’t concrete, that there wasn’t an answer, it dawned on me that they³ were trying to attain a meaning. They wanted to get it right. See, attainment sneaks in.

But, the sutra says, prajnaparamita is the way to end suffering and that there is no attainment–nothing to attain–so if we try to attain are we not causing our own suffering?
Yup.

The leader later spoke about our obsessive need for attainment. I think he was giving a not entirely subtle dig to the meditation apps as he pointed out that trying to get meditation right is exactly not what meditation, or the dharma, is about. He said that whether you sit for 5 minutes or an hour, it doesn’t matter. You just need to be present and come back to the breath. You don’t need to be better today than yesterday. You don’t need to track–to keep a streak–to try to be perfect.

I looked down at my watch.
And smiled.

I wasn’t checking the time. Rather, I started wearing my old Timex about a week ago, having given up wearing an Apple Watch except for my actual morning workout⁴. I smiled at the Timex’ inability to track a damn thing. It just shows the time. I am seriously considering stopping using the Apple Watch entirely. I suspect I will.

Even now, though, with not wearing the watch all day, this morning, the Apple Heath app gave me a warning about my drastic decrease in total activity. I really felt the pull to fix the problem, to be better, to track…it was visceral, almost. I thought about how we have become beholden to devices like these and their prodding us to attainment. Do more, hit your goals, keep your streak.

I chose to turn off the notifications.

Not wearing the Apple Watch is a huge step for me. I have been known for tracking, measuring, trying to achieve some sort of perfection. I absolutely think that striving is part of how I have dealt with the traumas life has given me. If I am perfect, life will be easier. I will be loved or respected… at least I won’t be looked down on or accused of not trying hard enough. I will have attained and I will have proof.

I am renouncing that, in part by the simple act of taking off the tracking device. Of not logging time, effort, mileage, etc. I won’t check the trends and see if I’m achieving, attaining. Of course, I won’t give up entirely–for example, I know I will very likely overeat if I don’t measure so I will use the scale and maybe write down what I’m eating if I’m not feeling my best. But no longer will I let some device tell me I’m not being a good enough human.

The mantra of prajnamaramita is gate gate pāragate pārasaṃgate bodhi svāhā, or gone, gone, gone beyond, gone utterly beyond, awakening/enlightenment, rejoice.

So, rather than continue trying to attain (as much), I am gone, baby, gone.

__________________________

1. For the non-Buddhists, a community of practitioners is called “the sangha” and it is often used as shorthand for the group practice. Where a Jew may say they went to temple, a Muslim to mosque (or prayers), or a Christian to church, we often say we go to sangha (more rarely, temple). This isn’t significant–just a little language lesson. ↩︎
2. Prajnamaramita, so it’s one word in Sanskrit. ↩︎
3. I’m not being all judgy here; I was just aware that, as for me (and some others), I wasn’t trying to find the answer. I happen to think that, whatever the translation we will never know exactly the meaning and, rather, the general idea is simply that letting go is key. ↩︎
4. I stopped wearing it for sleep tracking some months ago. It just stressed me out as I have a low resting heart rate and sometimes sleep in positions that make the watch inform me that I am mostly dead. ↩︎

I’ve been watching The Four Seasons (series) on Netflix, season 2. Last evening, in one episode, one of the characters said, commiserating with another character who feels like she’s getting everything wrong, “Every decision feels like I’m trying to stick the landing on my entire fucking life.” They obviously recognize it was not a healthy way to live. He was articulating that sense that good enough wasn’t good enough if it was his effort. No matter how difficult the thing or how well he accomplished whatever, if he didn’t nail it all the way (sticking the landing), the whole thing was shit. His whole life was shit.

I felt like someone had put my wet finger in an electrical socket.

It resonated with me in a very big way. It’s not perfectionism. Perfectionism, at least in my way of thinking, goes beyond the self. That is, one is perfect and one demands perfection in others and everything. For example, a perfectionist would not buy something that had even a tiny flaw or they would hold others to be perfect, or else. This is different. It’s a sort of insecurity. It’s an external applied to our internal self: one will be rejected if one is not perfect to/for others. I don’t think everyone feels this, but for those of us who do…ooof, boy howdy.

I (and that character) are not perfectionists and do not demand others be anything other than the flawed humans they are. If anything, I accept far more imperfection in others than the average person. I suspect that is probably precisely because of that sense of unfairness towards myself, the experience of being judged and rejected and the fear of it happening again. Whatever, I don’t judge people that way–I see “flaws” as charming imperfections that make a person the individual they are. But when it comes to me and my sense of security in this world… super judgy. Impossible standards.

I know where I got my “crazy” (thanks, Mom¹). I’ve been aware of it for a long time. And, with a lot of work, I had mine pretty well under control–that is, I was aware of it and counter-programmed (for lack of a better term) so that it didn’t show up in my life much at all. I could let myself be imperfect and not be terrified. I could even laugh at my mistakes. I was okay, just as I was. People would like me as imperfect, just human. It was a much better way to live, and I lived it.

Until after the break-up. Something changed then.

Hearing that character say that line somehow made the pieces fall into place and I could see that I was sometimes doing that thing where I got bound up and afraid to do anything lest I screw it up. Including things that no one could possibly control. For example, at times I was terrified my car would break down or something house-related would fail. Well, of course those things aren’t just possible–they are likely! Everyone has these sorts of things happen. But it felt like I would be judged, and harshly, if they did. In other words, I had to stick the landing on just about everything in my life. The crazy was trying to return.

Why? Why was I holding my breath again? I know when we were still together I felt constrained, but that was about not upsetting my partner while he was dealing with his own stuff. Once I was freed from that, I felt lighter, briefly, but then this started. What the hell?

As I thought about it I realized that the break-up felt, to me, very similar to what I experienced with Mom. I had been taking long-term care of my partner, who was suffering some serious issues and, when I was exhausted and not perfect when I asked to be heard about something, he accused me of all sorts of untrue and horrible things and ended it². After ending it, he has been virtually silent, only communicating when necessary and then as little as possible. Neighbors ask me where he’s ended up or how he’s doing and are shocked when I say, “I have no idea–he doesn’t talk to me.”
So very similar.

The harsh words plus the silent treatment were touching back to my core wound.
And… boom. Bob’s your uncle.

Once I got that into my head, I could feel the crazy slinking back into its hidey-hole and I could be like the Buddha and simply say, “I see you Mara,” and get on with things. Turns out, not only do I not need to stick the landing, when I do land on my ass, I can laugh at myself and, if needed, ask a friend to help me up³.

______________________

1. Very long story short: as she was dying of lung cancer, I was her primary (virtually sole) caregiver; near the end, I made one personal mistake (got drunk at a party while my brother watched her) and for that she called me every disgusting name imaginable and then died a week later, not talking to me except if absolutely necessary for her care.
   I was 18. ↩︎
2. I would guess he would not see any of this the same way, of course. I can only and am only talking about my experience and feelings. ↩︎
3. Thanks to all the work I’ve done and the amazing help of some fabulous therapists, I could see this much more easily, now. We all ebb and flow; part of what one learns in therapy is how to identify and deal with the things that arise, like this. ↩︎

Today is the 15th anniversary of my admission to the California Bar. On that day, 15 years ago, I stood and took a separate oath before a Navy JAG officer who was an alum of my law school (my law school did this) and then, with everyone else, before at least one California Supreme Court justice and other notables from the judiciary, took the Bar oath.

I listened to the speeches and was moved by them as well as by the achievement we all had accomplished. I saw partners and families rejoicing around their newly-minted lawyers. It was joyful. I was so glad I attended.

I almost didn’t. That is, I could have taken my oath separately and not at this big event. Privately. And in Los Angeles where I was living at the time. I chose to come back and do it with my fellow Cal Western grads and other locals. I wanted to be a part of the group, even if only on the edges.

See, I had moved to LA right after taking the bar exam. In a grand gesture I moved up there to make my life with a man who lived there (he worked in the movie industry). I was madly in love… heavy on the madly. It was passionate and surreal and more than a little crazy, but I believed in love (still do!) so, why not? Sadly, shortly after settling into our downtown LA loft, I discovered he had a gambling problem and its co-morbid lying and financial problems¹. I was wise enough to end it, lick my wounds, take the financial hit (I was quite broke) and return to San Diego, a city I very much prefer over Los Angeles. Heartbroken, but I knew it was the right thing to do.

Now, none of my family ever offered to help me after a breakup. None of them ever came to me to hold me, let me cry on their shoulders, much less carry a piece of furniture. I had been through several hard (and some actually traumatic) experiences, including two divorces (with abuse and stalking) without anyone coming to me to help. I wonder often if this is because I am the only woman–that is, I have two brothers and my father was alive then still. Did my gender make a difference? Could they not empathize?

Whatever, I am not unaccustomed to being alone in the hard times. I’m really quite adept at navigating shit alone, even though I never like it, of course. Chop wood, carry water… I was that way even before I started reading Buddhism. Luckily, I’d had enough study by the time of the Los Angeles breakup to be able to roll with the knowledge of impermanence. I’d be okay.

But at that moment of celebration, as I took my oaths, not having anyone be there for me, well, I felt it. I felt more alone than in the hard times. I had a stranger take the photo above. I got no hugs, just handshakes from professors and the JAG officer. No flowers other than the simple rose pinned to my lapel, given by my alma mater². No one took me to lunch. There was no champagne. I simply took my oaths, listened to the speeches, then got back in my Miata and drove back to Los Angeles, to continue packing for my move.

And even now, remembering it, I get misty. It fucking hurt.

Today, again, I celebrate alone. I’m proud of what I did and what I have made of that work. I love my clients and would do it all again, for sure. But, again, I feel more of the aloneness than I have during recent hurtful, difficult times.

As I think about it, I wonder if we’re conditioned to think about having the people who love us support us in the hard times but don’t pay attention to having people support us (or supporting them) in the good times. Maybe, it is at least as important. For example, my neighbor who met her now-boyfriend about the time of my break-up seemed extra thrilled that I made a very big deal about wanting to see her happiness and hear all of the excitement and joy. And I did! Being there with her in her joy was wonderful. For us both.

Maybe we connect even more by being there in the moments of others’ joy?

My neighbors’ twins are celebrating a birthday this week: they’re turning 9. Instead of wallowing in my loneliness today, I think I’ll go buy them some gift cards to the local book store and the ice cream store next door to it. To celebrate my bar-iversary, I can be in their joy.

_____________________

1. We actually officially broke up on the day I learned I’d passed the bar, May 13th (Friday the 13th….ha!). ↩︎
2. I still have it, btw. It dried out of course and now rests in my office. ↩︎