Stick a Needle in my Eye

Stick a needle in my eye. For the life of me, I can’t recall the rhyme that goes with the phrase, stick a
needle in my eye. Sitting in the examination room at the retinal specialist, the phrase keeps running
through my mind. It’s driving me crazy I can’t remember the opening. Minutes slowly tick by as
Kylie - the receptionist/technician (frankly, I’m not quite sure what she is) - works on getting approval
from my insurance company to make sure my first ever eye injection is covered by our medical plan.
Yes, I sit patiently waiting for an ophthalmologist to literally stick a needle in my eye, and I can’t
remember the damn opening to that damn rhyme.

Modern day torture chair?

Out of boredom and sheer nervous anticipation, I walk into the small reception area and asked Kylie
about it.

“Kylie, do you know the old saying, ‘stick a needle in my eye’?’” I ask.

“I’ve heard it before,” she replies, barely glancing up from her work to acknowledge me.

“Do you remember how it goes?,” I ask. “I can’t remember and it’s driving me crazy.”

She replies that she doesn’t recall, then nonchalantly goes back to her work. As the waiting drags on,
I find myself resenting the fact that someone who works in an office that literally sticks fucking needles
in eyeballs 20 to 30 times a day is completely unaware of the full saying. Seriously, how could it NOT
have come up in conversation before? Come on Kylie, get with the program.

Since being diagnosed with a fairly rare retinal disease called polypoidal choroidal vasculopathy
(try saying that fast three times), my eyes had been dilated often, which I quickly learn makes using
my cell phone nearly impossible. Hence, I can’t simply google, “stick a needle in my eye,” to find the
answer to my most pressing question of the moment. Of course, my obsession with answering this
question has absolutely nothing to do with the prospect of literally getting a needle plunged into my
eye, and everything to do with trying to think of anything but this impending procedure. A good half
hour has passed since the doctor came in to place a yellow sticker above my right eye, you know, to
make certain he sticks the needle in the correct eye. In my case, the correct eye happens to be my
right. Explaining the sticker, he mentions the importance of not getting the words “right” and “correct”
mixed up and I can’t help but think if he’s about to stick a fucking needle into my left eye I might just
speak up and correct him.

The impatient patient, ready to go.

Polypoidal choroidal vasculopathy, or PCV, involves the formation of abnormal blood vessels that leak
blood or fluid under the retina. This leakage can cause the sudden onset of blurred vision, which is
exactly what happened to me. The central vision in my right eye suddenly formed a kind of shadowy
area, noticeable when I looked at something white, that caused a blur in my mid-range vision.
Strangely, the shadow kind of looked like the silhouette of a nipple. I first noticed it while driving, when
road signs that once appeared sharp were suddenly blurry. It took me awhile to realize only my right
eye was affected, and while I could still see relatively well, there was a new subtle blur that had me
startled. I was prediabetic and knew to keep an eye out (no pun intended) for vision changes.
Of course, my mind wandered to the simplest of medical explanations, all confirmed by Dr. Google.

Brain tumor? Stroke? Detached retina? All of the above!

The first ophthalmologist I saw referred me to a retinal specialist. Following my first appointment with
the specialist and his PCV diagnosis, I was set to see him again a week later for my first eye injection.
However, the very next morning I receive a call from Kylie telling me they want to see me that day.
She does not give an explanation for the sudden urgency. I scramble to find a babysitter to watch my
three-year-old and my anxiety shoots through the roof as I convince myself that clearly my situation is
much worse than the doctors originally suspected and blindness is inevitable.

It’s interesting what goes through your mind when you truly consider the prospect of impending
blindness. As a photographer, I’ve always thought I’ve had a heightened appreciation for my vision.
But what goes through my head that morning as I anxiously wait to go in to see the doctor surprises
me. It has nothing to do with my life as a photographer. It is simply realizing that everything I love and
hold dear about life and living involves being able to see.

The eye is really pretty fascinating. I had to go back and read up again on how it works. Try not to take them for granted. 

I think about the prospect of not being able to watch my sons grow up. I think about not being able to
read or drive a car. I think about never seeing Lake Superior again and not being able to look for
agates while walking along her shore. I come to realize that being a photographer is only one tiny
aspect of all the wonderful things I do with the gift of the sense of sight. Really, the only remotely
positive I can come up with regarding the prospect of blindness is the thought of never having to see
the face of Donald Trump EVER again.

I do not mean to belittle all that the blind deal with on a daily basis and the adaptations they have
made to make their lives more manageable. While I marvel at the strength and perseverance of the
blind, relief floods over me as I arrive at the eye clinic and learn the doctor simply wants to start my
treatments sooner rather than later and I am apparently not going blind. Thanks so much for explaining
all that when you urgently called Kylie . . . sheesh.

As word finally comes in that the insurance company has approved the eye injection treatment, I
nervously sit back in the examination chair while the doctor explains the procedure in more detail . . .
the two layers of lidocaine gel applied to my eye, the use of an eyelid speculum to keep the eye open,
and the tiny pinch of pain and discomfort I could expect to experience once the fucking needle is
stuck into my eye. He asks if I want Kylie to come in and hold my hand to help calm my nerves.
He explains she has a demeanor many patients find soothing, one he admits he lacks.

“I have two kids doctor. I’ve been through childbirth twice. I think I’ve got this one,” I say.

“Fair enough,” he replies.

And in a pinch, it is over.

Maybe I just couldn’t forgive Kylie for not being able to answer that all important question. Or maybe
I’m just more of a badass than I realize. Whatever the reason, I was ready for the pinch. I’m grateful
for advances in medicine and the amazing technology that exists to make shit like this possible.
Take a moment to open your eyes, look around, rejoice in what you see and do your best not to take
it for granted.

Cross my heart and hope to die . . . stick a needle in my eye.

Check out a link to the whole text, which is apparently a poem from the 1900s. It’s pretty weird.

https://www.quora.com/Whats-the-full-poem-of-cross-my-heart-hope-to-die

Boys will be empathetic, decent humans

“Mothers of sons should be scared. It is terrifying that at any time, any girl can make up any story about any boy that can neither be proved or disproved, and ruin any boy’s life.”

This is a meme circulating on the Internet I take particular issue with. It sums up everything wrong with our culture today, so steeped in toxic masculinity and the entitlement of men. Mothers need to protect their precious little boys from attention seeking whorish girls looking to ruin them. Really? But, whoever devised this meme seems to be forgetting a rather important feature of their intended audience — mothers are women.

According to the National Sexual Violence Resource Center, one in five women will be raped and one in three women will experience some form of sexual violence in their lifetime. Chances are, many of these women who have been victimized by men will indeed become the mothers of sons. In fact, these chances are just about 50/50 if they choose to go down the route of motherhood. I can’t speak for all women, but I’m willing to bet they remember quite well being the victims of these men, and false accusations by girls directed at their sons are not even on their radar. If they’re anything like me, they’re a lot more concerned with the challenge of raising their sons to be empathetic, kind young men who take responsibility for their actions and treat all people with respect.

Considering the Trump regime and the old white guys in power are pushing a fucked up narrative that sexual assault is some kind of rite of passage in a young man’s life, this challenge is more daunting than ever. I use to joke that as a parent I like to set the bar low with my expectations — with the hope that my sons will turn out to be neither serial killers or Republicans. Over time, this has become less of a joke, as the Republican party has become more and more abhorrent and out of line with any kind of recognizable morality.

More than two years ago I wrote about the challenges of raising boys following the disturbing story of Stanford swimmer and rapist Brock Turner. Having gone back and read what I wrote, I wanted to share it again here, and sadly wonder why it seems we’re living in a world where things are getting worse for women instead of better. As we sit on the precipice of appointing a man accused of sexual assault to a lifetime position on the Supreme Court — a man who should surely be disqualified from being a candidate after flunking the job interview in spectacular fashion — I feel the pressure now more than ever to seriously examine how I’m raising my own boys. Trying to teach your children right from wrong when those committing the most serious abuses of power get rewarded with even more power . . . frankly, it scares the hell out of me.

“Mothers of sons should be scared. It is terrifying that at any time, any girl can make up any story about any boy that can neither be proved or disproved, and ruin any boy’s life.”

So no, I’m not losing sleep worrying about “any girl” making up stories about my sons that could ruin their lives. Any “mother of sons” who seriously believes this line of bullshit needs to take a cold hard look in the mirror and ask herself who’s to blame for the prevalence of sexual assault in our society — the victims or the perpetrators? It’s long overdue that men are held accountable for their fucked up actions and the effects of those actions on women, and it’s time parents — yes, parents of boys, not just mothers — take responsibility for teaching the simple concept of consent, consent, consent!


Observational learning — or how to avoid raising a douchebag rapist

When my second son was born, I have to admit that part of me was relieved he was a boy. Granted, part of me was disappointed that he wasn’t a girl and I would never get a chance to have that close mother-daughter relationship epitomized by the Gilmore Girls. Yet, I was relieved that he wouldn’t have to deal with growing up female in America and wouldn’t be dealing with our crazy culture of female body ideals. It’s also hard to ignore a survey by the Association of American Universities that found 1 in 4 college women said they were sexually assaulted during their academic career. I’m relieved I won’t be sending him to college worrying that he’d be the victim of some douchebag rapist. However, it is my responsibility to make sure he’s not on the other side of that statistic.

The statistic blows me away and makes me realize how lucky I am that I’ve made it this far in my life unscathed. It’s sad that I just wrote that. Lucky. Back in the day, I was certainly no stranger to drinking too much and making out with guys I barely knew at college parties. There were a number of opportunities where I could have easily become a part of that statistic. And yet, I did not. Did I just luck out that the guys I locked lips with were “gentlemen” and were able to control their basic animal instincts? Did their parents sit them down at some point in their upbringing and explain to them the meaning of consent? Was I lucky enough to have friends looking out for me and steering me clear of dangerous situations?

Frankly, I believe the best way to raise our boys to not be douchebag rapists is to simply surround them with good people — men and women both. I believe we learn best through example, observational learning. Growing up, I observed how my father treated my grandma, my mom and my sister and I. In turn, I learned to look for similar traits in the men in my life. I’m trying hard to surround my boys with the best examples of men who respect women, starting of course with their father and our male friends. My husband works hard for his family and displays a lot of respect for the women in his life, as do most of our friends. They’re a great group of nerdy guys who get together a lot to play board games and D&D. I can’t think of a single instance where I felt offended by anything these men have said regarding women, or anything else for that matter. Sometimes I think my best friend’s husband is a better feminist than I am. The concept of men respecting women in my circle of friends is just the norm. And shouldn’t that be true for everybody?

I realize that this is something I take for granted and realize I’m lucky to be in the position I’m in. There’s that word again, lucky. But it shouldn’t come down to luck, it really shouldn’t. Something is severely wrong with our society when getting through college without being raped is considered being lucky and when the concept of men respecting women is considered radical.

What I wrote two years ago seems oversimplified today. My sons are now 8 and 3, and we still struggle with the concept of consent in general. They’re very active boys who love to climb on people and give hugs. We’ve been working on asking permission and understanding boundaries and personal space, but it’s a daily struggle. It is an issue I find ever more important considering the times we live in and the messages kids are being exposed to. When those in power disregard and disrespect half of the population, it is more important than ever to raise considerate boys who respect women and girls and understand being held accountable for their actions. Maybe the only way we can improve the future of women in this country is by working on raising the next generation of boys to fully understand the concept of consent and to feel actual repercussions when they overstep their bounds. When I figure out how to do this, I’ll let you know.










































x

EXPOSED — The Shirtless Man Phenomenon — An Examination of Shirt Deficiency Disorder (SDD) — Part II

Recently, while writing about my shirtless man obsession from a humorous perspective — EXPOSED -
The Shirtless Man Phenomenon - An Examination of Shirt Deficiency Disorder (SDD) - Part I — I
began asking myself more serious, pointed questions about my fascination. When I photograph
shirtless men and post their photos on Facebook to make fun of them, am I guilty of body shaming?
As someone who is sensitive to female body image issues in our society, am I being hypocritical by
poking fun at these half-naked men?

The original Shirtless Jeff

In general, I do not advocate body shaming. However, if you’re a shirtless dude out in public, you’re
essentially bringing judgement upon yourself. I consider myself to be a progressive feminist, so some
might equate this line of thinking as hypocritical. How would I feel if someone posted a photograph of
me dressed in an unflattering, tight and revealing dress, then made fun of my fat rolls? Throughout
history a double standard has existed regarding the manner in which men and women are judged,
with a woman’s worth based heavily on her outside appearance and attractiveness. From sitcoms like
the King of Queens — where the wife is 10 times more attractive than the husband — to all the
comments about physical appearance slung toward any woman in the public sphere — think Janet
Reno and Hillary Clinton — it’s very apparent that the way a woman looks comes first and foremost in
judging her overall value. So shirtless guys — cry me a river. If you don’t want your physical
appearance scrutinized, maybe consider just keeping your shirt on. It’s quite easy for you to go back
to being an average looking guy who’ll be judged and valued based on your sparkling personality traits
and that deep, deep intellect.

Back in my college years, I worked as a clerk at an Amoco gas station in Ann Arbor, Michigan. One
day during a slow weekend shift, a middle aged shirtless man came into the store to buy a pack of
cigarettes. For whatever reason, I decided at that moment to enforce the station’s, “no shoes, no shirt,
no service,” policy, and denied the man his cancer sticks. I was promptly called a bitch as the man
exited the store and drove off in a huff. Now what was my motivation behind denying him his cigarettes?
Had I already developed a deep-seated aversion to shirtless men? Was I bored out of my mind and
wanted to exert my clerking super powers? It’s really tough to know for sure, but maybe I simply didn’t
appreciate being exposed to his bare chest.

So where does this aversion come from? Am I jealous of a man’s ability to just whip off their shirt
anywhere and anytime without a second thought? Honestly, when it comes right down to it, I find it
ridiculous we live in a society where women baring their breasts to feed their babies in public are often
shamed for their actions, while men can and do walk around half-naked exposing their useless,
decorative nipples and nobody gives a shit. It’s even come to the point where the “Dad Bod” is an
actual thing, supposedly being celebrated — at least according to a bunch of middle-aged male
magazine editors. A woman feeding her baby in public is somehow seen as inappropriate, while some
hairy, shirtless dude with a paunch is somehow seen as the new sexy. What’s wrong with this picture?

The First Shirtless Man of Spring 2018

Growing up female, we’re told to act a certain way, to act like a “lady,” to be polite, smile, be agreeable.
Don’t be too loud or too opinionated, because if you are, you might be seen as a bitch. In contrast,
males are encouraged to be bold and brash, put it all out there, be aggressive and strong. Don’t be
too emotional or too sensitive, because if you are, you might be seen as weak and girly. This line of
thinking even carries over to the way women and men are suppose to act when it comes to baring
one’s chest. A breastfeeding woman should be discrete and meek — careful to not make anybody feel
uncomfortable — while a shirtless dude in public can be free to do chin-ups along the bike trail or bask
in the sun reading a book in the park.   

A shirtless man suns himself at the playground. Note, there's still snow on the ground.

Mansplaining, manspreading, toxic masculinity . . . in this age of the #metoo movement, we’re
inundated with buzzwords addressing the entitlement of men. I know many, many women who are
fed up and sick of all the bullshit. If I spend some time poking fun at the dudes who feel the need to
take off their shirts as soon as the thermometer reaches 47 degrees, so be it. And if it hurts some poor
man’s fragile ego, I’m not going to stop to say I’m sorry. I’ve been needlessly apologizing for things my
whole life, because I was trained to be polite and agreeable, I was trained to be a woman. I’m done.
Where has this training gotten us, what gains have been made by being polite and agreeable?

Between Trump, his GOP enablers and his downright dirty ass racist, misogynist supporters, we’re in
for a bumpy ride. Economic equality, reproductive freedom, childcare costs, emotional labor, sexual
harassment, sexual assault, the worst maternal mortality rate in the developed world . . . the lists goes
on and on. I talked to a friend today who said her anger at the male population in general over the
constant barrage of shit being thrown at women and women’s rights is beginning to manifest itself into
how she’s treating her own husband. Resentment is high. So men, if we make fun of those of you who
choose — yes, choose — to run around half naked, maybe it’s best that you let it be. Let us have this
one little laugh at your expense, because really, it’s pretty hard to find anything to laugh about these
days.  

Shirtless man in Cartagena, Colombia - an international phenomenon.

In the meantime, ladies, I say It’s time we focus our energy on embracing and celebrating the Mom
Bod. It’s time to lift up our fupas and show off our C-section scars. Need to feed your child? Brashly
whip out your breasts and let the feast begin. It’s time we make the dudes and the bros feel
uncomfortable for a change and remind them that our bodies are amazing, our bodies are beautiful,
our bodies can create tiny humans.

Watercolor courtesy of bopo_watercolour
Check out her work

EXPOSED — The Shirtless Man Phenomenon — An Examination of Shirt Deficiency Disorder (SDD) — part I

The signs of spring - shirtless man and trees in bloom.

While hanging out with an old friend the other day, she mentioned spotting a shirtless man in
the park and thinking of me. Another friend, a few hours later, texted me a picture of a shirtless man
sitting in an open window of a brick apartment building. This all got me thinking about my shirtless
man obsession, which apparently has manifested itself enough to become part of my bizarre personal
identity. When friends see a shirtless man, they think of me. I’d like to take a moment to examine my
obsession and take stock of its meaning — if not for the deeper discovery of some kind of universal
truth, then for shits and giggles. Because really, what’s more funny than a shirtless man?

I think it’s best to start at the very beginning — to start with my bare-chested patient zero — in what
has become my general fascination with the shirtless man. This man is Jeff, or as he’s come to be
known, for lack of originality, Shirtless Jeff.

The Shirtless Jeff — my patient zero

Jeff is a family friend of our former nextdoor neighbors, who were — nicely put — very rough around
the edges. In the eight or so years they lived nextdoor, their home was visited frequently by the local
police and their two grown adult sons were well acquainted with the county jail. After quitting my
newspaper photographer job to become a stay-at-home mom, I found myself inundated with both
boredom and curiosity. How could I resist documenting the shit show performances of our fucked up
neighbors and their associates? Thus, one afternoon, I captured the image of Shirtless Jeff hanging
out on the neighbor’s front stairs in all his flabtabulous glory — an image that would end up launching
a thousand other shirtless man images. As I recall, it was a very hot and humid summer day, so at
least his shirtlessness was justified to a point. However, this fact did not stop me from posting the
photo on Facebook in a mocking manner because, really, I’m an asshole, I was bored, I thought it
was pretty amusing and if this is the scenery I must bear looking out of my front porch window, why
not share it with the world?

Once you start noticing shirtless men, you suddenly realize that they're everywhere. Unless of course
it's winter in Minnesota. Minnesota winters aren’t exactly conducive for exposing bare skin to the
elements. Following a long winter of itchy wool sweaters, tight undershirts and restrictive bulky parkas,
some guys are over eager to shed it all upon the first slightly warm day. As the mercury slowly rises,
my anticipation of spotting and documenting the First Shirtless Man of Spring is high. Capturing a
photograph of this man has become a bit of a hobby. A couple years ago, I found myself driving
around the neighborhood — while the toddler car napped — in search of the First Shirtless Man of
Spring. Partially out of stay-at-home-mom boredom and partially out of craziness, this seemed like a
good idea. My former career as a photojournalist exposing the seedy underbelly of society had indeed
evolved into simply documenting man’s shirtless underbelly.

The pinnacle of my First Shirtless Man of Spring hunting expeditions had to be the year I managed
to capture a photograph of a shirtless man jogging past snow banks on the actual first day of spring.
It’s a glorious image of a middle aged white man jogging in the bright sunshine, showing off his pale,
pasty plumage following a long dormant winter. Unlike the groundhog, this proud specimen is not
skittish at the sight of his own shadow and feels no shame in exposing his manly chest to the world
at large. Later, as summer was fading and fall was quickly approaching, I like to think I bumped into
him again, sitting at a picnic table in the park. Only now, he was an old fat man. Still proud and
shirtless, he gazed off pensively and took in his surroundings. Just like Baby New Year grows into
Father Time, the First Shirtless Man of Spring had become the Fat Shirtless Man of Fall. It had been
a wonderful summer filled with beer and bratwurst, culminating with the fried food orgy known as
the Minnesota State Fair.

The First Shirtless Man of Spring meets the Fat Shirtless Man of Fall

My obsession with the shirtless man has become somewhat of a sport, or maybe more akin to birdwatching. Once you start paying attention, you’ll start seeing them everywhere and it’s easy to start putting them into various categories. It really wouldn’t take much work to make-up a whole classification system of shirtless men. The shirtless man who labors outdoors in the hot sunshine, the buff shirtless runner who wants to show off his body, the shirtless cyclist who’s asking for a world of hurt if he falls off his bike . . . the possibilities are endless. Still, I’m not really sure why I am obsessed with the shirtless man, but I can’t stop noticing them, thinking about and commenting on their basic existence. And much like the shirtless man himself, I feel no shame. After all, we all need a hobby.

When Is it Okay to be a Shirtless Man in Public?

1. You're at the beach or the pool.

2. Your name is Bruce Banner. Surely Dr. Banner would have a hard time continuously stocking his
closet with new shirts.

3. Your shirtless image is vital to the meme world community. Think Vladimir Putin.

4. Your name is Iggy Pop.

5. You literally need to give the shirt off your back to somebody in dire need of a shirt.

6. Your name is Jesus Christ.

7. You're on display at an art museum and carved out of marble.

8. You're on the skins team in a pick-up game of basketball.

9. You're an underwear model whose livelihood depends upon being shirtless.

10. You have invested a ton of time and money in covering more than 50% of your torso with
interesting, meaningful and artistically rendered tattoos.

11. It is 1963 . . . you're a kid from the streets named Johnny making a little green teaching dance lessons to rich, bored, middle aged housewives at a resort in the Catskills.

Stay tuned for part II: a more serious look at the shirtless man and society