Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Some emails

Some emails are so painful that you put them in their own special folder because you can't make yourself hit Delete. Then you duck in that folder and it hurts all goddamned over again.

The two percent

I always said two percent of me wanted a baby. I never realized that the other 98 percent was right there along with it.

Today one of the families from New House sent a few pictures of their beautiful new baby. That two percent sprang into action. But this time, I think the rest of me knows it's time to call it a day.

Vegas, 2011

My God, I love this picture. It came up on the On This Day section of Facebook. We look so ... us. Since then we've fielded death, life, an unplanned pregnancy, an emotional affair, you name it.

I love this man.

The whole life's-too-short thing

What a cliche. You know? Everyone says life's too short. But what do people actually do to support that? That's pretty much why I'm a bit of an oversharer (okay, more than a bit) and if it's in my head, it' s usually on the page. Or pixel. Or whatever.

For some reason I'm thinking of things that have been said to me in the past. The first time Adam used the word smitten to describe how he felt about me. The first time he said I love you. (Totally unplanned, and a funny story I'm not going to reveal here because some things should stay private.)

Then The Dude:

You fucked up my assumptions. ... No, I love it. At first I wasn't sure, wondering if it WAS a put-on. Very few people are this real/genuine/open/unique. But apparently you're one of them.

See? It's hard to totally hate him.

And yet. I just logged into Twitter, which I don't often do, and yup: blocked. On Facebook too, no doubt. God, there are so many nasty things that come to mind right now, so much I want to say, so much cover I want to blow.

You were the one who said that war was silly, that you didn't plan to engage in any negativity. Then you did.

I won't say everything I did was spot-on and perfect and righteous. But I don't get you. I. Don't. Get.  You.

Monday, January 22, 2018


”Mommy,” Baz said, “you are the next mommy.”

The great sinking energy level

I have no energy these days. Or, more accurately, I have energy but it comes and goes, and when it's gone, forget it.

Figuring it out means doing the math. And I'm no good with numbers.


ME: You're making that for me, right?
ADAM: No. I'm just going to get you a cup of kibble.

June 2015

Sunday, January 21, 2018


I'm taking a "21 Days to Deeper Intimacy" course from (don't laugh -- though of course I would laugh) Daily OM. Today I got this in an email from them:

Ultimately, we are all equally, exactly, completely worthy of being here in this life. Moreover, we are all essential to the unfolding plan of which we are each one small, but important, part. If we suffer from low self worth, it is because we have lost track of understanding this truth, and allowing it to guide our actions in the world. Seeing ourselves as part of something larger, as beings called to serve, is the ultimate cure for feelings of unworthiness. In the end, it's not about evaluating ourselves as worthy or unworthy, so much as it's about accepting that we have been called here to serve and taking the steps required to listen and respond to what our lives are asking us to do.

While I don't think I suffer from low self-worth for the most part, I do question my desirability and lovability -- particularly the former. Adam laughs when I say this, but he does so with love. He gets it.

Saturday, January 20, 2018

In which she breaks her word

Remember how I wasn't going to discuss certain topics? Well, I got stoned and that flew right out the window.

Here's the thing, though: shit is getting real.

Let's recount how Adam and I got together: we were friends. Then we realized we were more. Things got more heated and uglier and we drank far too much together. We fought. Finally we stopped speaking because the friendship could go no further without us bowing to the inevitable.

Three weeks later, he broke up with his girlfriend. And we bowed.

The pattern? She's baaaack. Version 2.0. Except this time I'm the one who's taken, married with a kid no less. It's spinning out slightly differently. But it is spinning.

And out of sheer randomness, let's recount the exchange I just had with Idan over Facebook:

Idan Levin I'm getting: your heart is black, you kike.

Allison Landa Levin, you are lucky I am stoned and carry no weaponry.

Idan Levin Oh, so you're self-stoning? Saves the neos the effort...

Allison Landa I operate independently. KInd of like Ted Kaczynski.


I took my little boy to Spaghetti Factory

Think he liked it?

Friday, January 19, 2018

It bears saying

When you're just feeling strong again is when the wind will try to knock you over. Use your umbrella and stab that fucker through the heart.

From the book

Maybe blackouts aren’t a totally bad thing. Could be that your mind knows you don’t want to deal with whatever you’ve done, so it takes out the eraser and does what it needs to do. Still, there are things I’d like to be able to express, words I’m trying to wrap my tongue around. My mouth is the Sahara, my brain a flood. Between the two lies a fucked-up pond that could either be a lake or a mirage.

Matt, I want to say, you’re a metaphor. Too real to be a simile and yet not real enough to be mine. But accident and circumstance keep me silent. That and not knowing how long I’ve been out.

Time. Total mind game. Think about it. How often do we glance at our phones – or for the few of us with watches, our wrists – or up at the clock on the wall, or down at the ground to try to figure out where in the sky the sun is shining and therefore throwing shade?

Damn. I must still be high.


I couldn't sleep the other night. I tried to wake Adam up to talk to me and got all pissy when he took a while to surface.

"What's going on?" he asked through a fog.

"If I knew," I said, "I would feel a lot better."

"Vito," he said, aping The Godfather in Group Therapy, one of our favorite oldie Saturday Night Live skits, "you're blocking."


Thursday, January 18, 2018

Editing this today

I mean, what I'd really like to do is tell certain parties what I think of them ... pussies. But instead, this:

“You look awful,” he says, and kisses me again.

It’s like the mixed-message fairy came and presented me with a big old lap dance. It’s the kind of thing that would normally put me on hyper-edge, make me tense and then tense some more. Instead I find myself falling into it, kissing him back.

No one ever said life made sense.

“Don’t be scared,” he says, and leads me to a soft, high edge. A bed.

“I’m not.”

“Hey,” he says, “I can relax you.”

The bong is shaped like Yoda. I’m not sure if it’s his or someone else’s and how he got it.

Who cares, right? Except you lose control when you’re high. You say things you shouldn’t say. You do things that should only remain fantasies.

Latest abstract acceptance

The Fourth World Conference on Womens' Studies, Columbo, Sri Lanka. This could be the one.

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

The Three

I've loved three guys in my life. Dated others, but only really loved three. I've found each heartbreaking in his own way. I guess when you love someone like that, you'll always love them. You'll always care about them. You'll always wonder and worry.

It's kind of like that.

Damn it

Of course, I swear I won't talk about things again. And then ... fuck. But no. Stay strong, man. Stay strong.

My boys

Last night

On female anger

The New York Times has an interesting piece on this. In part:

If an angry woman makes people uneasy, then her more palatable counterpart, the sad woman, summons sympathy more readily. She often looks beautiful in her suffering: ennobled, transfigured, elegant. Angry women are messier. Their pain threatens to cause more collateral damage. It’s as if the prospect of a woman’s anger harming other people threatens to rob her of the social capital she has gained by being wronged. We are most comfortable with female anger when it promises to regulate itself, to refrain from recklessness, to stay civilized.
As usual, I'm not your typical woman. People have been drawn to me for the anger. Repulsed too, probably. It's gotten more nuanced over the years, but it is and always will be there.

Monday, January 15, 2018

Cleaning house

I've just deleted more than 100 posts. I'm locking down certain subjects. Back to kiddie photos and the occasional swear-fest.


On a much more chill note ...

The lynching of Aziz Ansari

Bad dates happen all the time. They don't get written about all the time, but such is the case of this one with Aziz Ansari.

As far as I'm concerned, this story is a bunch of bullshit. This woman engaged in consensual sex acts with him, hung out, gave him mixed messages, and then bitched to the media that he poured her white wine when she preferred red.

I'm sick of the victim culture around sexual harassment. If I had a daughter, I would teach her that she is primarily responsible for her well-being. That means don't let him eat you out if you're trying to tell him you don't want to fuck him. End of story.

Friday, January 12, 2018

Metaphorically speaking

I drive a stick. Always have. Always will so long as they are available.

I believe in red-lining, taking it to the top. Then and only then can you shift.

And with that, I wish you a good night.

Feels like old times

But before the fight, the bar.

They say love changes, and it does. There are times I resent that. When this picture was taken, I didn't.

Grudging gratitude

In many ways, today sucked. I had a stupid I-9 snafu with my lucrative new contract, Adam and I had a fight on our way home from the city, and I just felt stupidly tired and drained from being angry.

But this was my afternoon date at Farm Burger. I think he's pretty awesome.

Thursday, January 11, 2018

I love Joseph

He told me I was weird last night. I asked how.

Weird in every possible way.
Infuriating. Delightful. Absurd. Impossible. Insane. Insightful.
Incorrigible. Outrageous. Magnificent. Venomous. Superb.
Shall I go on, sis?

I told him he should.

The death of Blaze Bernstein

This 19-year-old college student was home for the holidays. He will never return to school again. There are many rumors and theories about his death, but the fact is that his parents will never again see him laugh, never get to hug him, never get to get mad at him over something stupid and petty the way parents do.

I think anyone with kids understands this fear. I certainly do.

Monday, January 8, 2018

Abstract acceptances

I've already been given the thumbs-up by Euro Diabetes 2018 and the Endicrinology and Diabetology 2018 conference -- in Rome and London, respectively. Now to find funding ...


My guys.

Love him.


Random dude at the Oakland Museum.

Blurry Jack.

Sunday, January 7, 2018


Writing is revenge. And I write like a goddamned demon.

The fact that I can write about certain things without crying means I've come a long fucking way. I'm not the homely schlump I once was.

I'm still angry, though. I'll always be angry.

Online navel-gazing

I've added the following links at left:

Email me

My homepage is already there. Come stalk me!

Saturday, January 6, 2018

A different kind of party

As we've done for years now, we went to Kristen and Sean's after-holiday party. Today was different, though. Instead of getting drunk in the living room or stoned in the man-cave, we chased Baz around. Finally I had had enough. Between my typical social anxieties and my neurosis about how my kid affects other people, I was on the verge of some sort of breakdown.

So Adam stayed and we left. And I thought I was frustrated, and I am to some degree, but you know what? I'm only going to have a two-year-old once. There will always be parties with bacon-wrapped hot dogs.

Ya know?

My imperfect child in my imperfect house in my imperfect life. 

Random pics from Facebook

26 weeks pregnant.

"We used to close down bars. Now we open them."

Cheesesteak Shop.

First pic together.

Lip Service West, February 2016.


The most inappropriate parents at the New House Day School potluck.

Motorcycle lessons. 

Conference submissions

I've decided to take on a new role: patient advocate for those with Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia. That's why I'm submitting to conferences all over the world. I've always wanted to serve as an advocate and speaker, and I can't believe I haven't thought to do this before.

Besides ... I wouldn't mind visiting London or South Africa or points in between. :)

Friday, January 5, 2018

Adam, on my taste in friends

“You seem to hang out with guys who like to be on the rag.”

Conference proposal

Abstract (300 word limit)

Statement of the Problem: Studies suggest that psychosocial factors – in addition to physical barriers – work to impair fertility and successful childbirth in women with Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia. This includes a reluctance to consult medical professionals as to the scope of the problem and possible solutions. This was the case with Allison Landa, who was not even successfully diagnosed with CAH until the age of 30 due to parental negligence and the terror of discussing her symptoms with a doctor. When successful intervention finally took place, Landa was not only able to stabilize her condition but become pregnant at the age of 40 following a short-term disruption of birth control. Her son Baz was born on Sept. 6, 2015. Landa offers a personal perspective as both a patient and an advocate for fellow CAH sufferers.

Conclusion and Significance: Increased outreach to CAH sufferers on the part of the medical community is indicated in order to reach those who might otherwise not be served.

Puppy love

Thursday, January 4, 2018

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

I love my baby

At the beginning of the video, he's asking for "Come Go With Me", which he calls "dum-dum".

Not your typical parents

Baz has become quite the little mimic. So of course we're starting to teach him the basics:

"Stop, collaborate, and listen."

"Sock it to me."

"Back in Nam ..."

Not everyone thinks it's funny, of course. They're wrong.

Tuesday, January 2, 2018

Kaitlyn Boulding, "Questions to Ask Yourself Before Giving Up"

NOTE: Not a fan of the second to last stanza -- we see this extraneous preciousness far too much -- but you gotta hand it to a poet who gives credence to whacking off.

Questions to ask yourself before giving up:
Are you hydrated?
When did you last
glut your thirst
with a handful of spring?
Have you eaten anything
besides emails or your fingernails
in the last three hours? Have you
pulled the protein out of an oak
tree or palmed an avocado
pit this month? Are your forlorn probiotics
languishing on your butter shelf?
Are you dressed? If so, does your skirt
strike matches alight
as you walk by? Can you melt
it a little around your waist
and ribcage? Are you resisting
a dream? Wrestling a dreamless night? Let yourself
take a bath in your bed
clothes for fifteen minutes,
no pressure to fall asleep. But make sure
to turn off all your beehives
first. At least take them out
of your bedroom.
Have you uncoiled the ropes of your legs
and strung them along the length of the city
today? Have you let a lake or a snow bank
sketch silent letters on your back?
When did you last give away
your unworn clothes, your well-fitting
metaphors? Tell a neighbour or a person across
the coffee shop counter how well
they catch the light.
Have you snugged into a seedpod
in the past couple days? Do you need
a massage? Complete something
smaller than a lichen: return
a library book, or a letter, or a look,
or a relationship you regret. Sew
a button on that’s come loose. Crack
a window. Crack an egg.
Do you feel unattractive? Rub your skin
with smooth stones
or strong magnets. Wear sunglasses.
Take your reflection in
on the surface of a puddle.
Give yourself ten minutes.
Give yourself ten years.
Give yourself an orgasm.
Give yourself a change of seasons.
Give yourself a new lover.
Give yourself a to-do list
written with sidewalk
chalk and hopscotch across it.
Have you been working really hard
shovelling all the sidewalks
of your friendships?
Remember it takes time
to recover from exertion,
especially when you are a seedling.
Know that your friends want to send help.
They want to send daffodils and their extra hands
to braid your hair. They all want to be deciduous trees
and long semi-coloned sentences for you.
They want to.
Remember: you are a comma, one
beloved earring, a house
circled on a traveller’s map,
sometimes misplaced,
but never an imposition.
Everyone feels like a hallway
at some point or another.
But you are a room
that people enter to stay.