Does NO ONE need a therapist anymore?

Or a photographer? Or freelance writer?

Those are the three avenues of job hunting that I’ve been doing.

If you’re new to the Ratcho’s life you need to understand something kind of obvious: I’m a writer determined to have my way with the world.

Now that we’re all on the same page, you can understand that writing, unfortunately, does not come with any guarantees. It has the stability of, say, a 10 year old boy surfing out on Australian coastlines. It’s volatile, my friends. (No McCain pun intended there at all.) And so, that means I must find a way of finding a sustainable income. First there’s the practical part of me: the part that is a-d-d-i-c-t-e-d to all things academic and mental stimulation and books and theory and debating and learning. That’s the part of me that loves to counsel, fight for women’s interest issues, and psychology. The downside is that NO ONE IS HIRING BECAUSE OF THE LOUSY ECONOMY. Now, if I had fulfilled my mother’s wishes and my father’s demands to go into healthcare (Dad: Medicine is the ONLY noble profession. Or law, that’s ok too.”) (Mom: “Why not nursing? You’ll always have a job! You can do anything!”), I would be set here in Cleveland, home to approximately 298716 hospitals and medical centers. With Cleveland Clinic so close and Case Western around the corner, medprofessionals are cruisin’ the good life here in Brownsfanville.

Then there’s photography. Ahh, my third love (Nick #1, Writing #2)…photography is this artistic release for me. It’s the one thing that I seriously feel I could do all day and feel like I have not worked at all. It’s simply a joy to look through a lens and calculate white balance, lighting, exposure, ISO, and all these other acronyms that I have no idea of what their function is (but I sound smart so I use them like I know what I’m talking about). I started shooting photography the moment I could afford a camera. If you didn’t know this about art (especially photography and painting – my other obsession) they require quite the pretty penny; something without a steady income makes the starving artist/starving wife not very happy.

So, I’ve been doing a few weddings here and there just for fun and then Nick started getting on my case, “Why don’t you just do this as a side business?”

My standard reply, “Once I start doing it for money, the fun leaves. That means I’m responsible for someone’s wedding photos and I don’t want to be the photographer that forgot to turn something on and -oops- I missed the bride coming down the aisle.”

One thing you have to understand about wedding photography is that it’s just like trying to find a home – there are mansions, impressive houses, condos, and apartments – lots of variety and it’s all about fit. Some are definitely better than others and everyone has a price and quality they aim for (both customer and photographer). My pitch isn’t for the population that can spend thousands upon thousands of bucks on photos. I want clients who want good photos that capture a story and who can’t afford a great photographer. For folks struggling to make a wedding happen or just have a memory preserved, I want to be able to provide that for folks who may not otherwise be able to afford it. So, yeah, I’ve got a price, but I’m working on a sliding scale. As Nick loves to gloat, “You’re not only awesome, but cheap, too! You’ll be a hit!” I’m not looking for the mansion clients, just good people.

So after about, oh 3.5 years of shooting weddings for fun, I finally broke down and announced that I’m available for hire. Yep, I teamed up with a web designer to create: Lisa Factora-Borchers Photography

Preserving your memories since 2008!

Just kidding, that’s TOTALLY not my tagline.

If you’re interested and know of anyone needing portraits or a wedding photographer – go to my website:
lisafbphotography.com and you’ll see my current work in progress.

Fork in my Life

The first blog I ever read was Brownfemipower.com.  I found it when I began searching for “women of color feminism.”  Since then, I’m thousands of posts in, and I still wonder what the “meaning” of my blog is.  Whether it’s been to inform, vent, or share my life – it’s always been a reflection of what is going on in my mind and heart.  

And so, with this blog, I am beginning new phase in my life and my blog shall be heir to a decision I made to bring new life into the world.
I’m not pregnant, far from it.  48 hours ago, I attended my first appointment with an ob/gyn in Cleveland, my home now for the past 6 weeks, and uttered the words aloud for the first time: I want to have a baby.
I was alone, intentionally.  In this woman’s office, looking deep into her dark blue eyes and she smiled right back at me.  There was an enormous glass window to my left and a windowfull of sunshine poured on my skin as I said it aloud.  I felt amazing, beautiful even.
My reproductive system has always been tumultuous.  An early onset of my period, extremely irregular cycles, and a ovarian tumor and partial ovarian removal surgery at age 20 has decorated my life with frequent visits, medication, pain, and wondering.
I want to a child.  
Adonis and I have been talking about this for awhile and while millions of womyn become pregnant all the time, I can honestly say that it feels like you’re the only one who’s ever been done this road before.  It feels like I’ve had a shot of hypervigilant meds that cause me to worry over my body and become acutely aware of ever pain, however slight.
I’ve heard women, who are in a position of privilege to choose pregnancy, say that there is a line that you cross when you become pregnant.  I disagree.  For me, the line was crossed once I decided that I wanted to have a child and was going to do whatever I could, within reason, to go through a pregnancy.  No exaggeration, I felt different when I said those words aloud.  
I want to have a baby.
It’s funny how I was and am one decision  away from keeping my life the exact same: happy, childless, filled with open moments and a carefree schedule.  Or, I can begin this journey of medical intervention, appointments, evaluations, analysis, research, learning, health, and the emotional rollercoaster involved with healthcare, insurance, fertility, and diagnosis.
I don’t know much more than the average women, average feminist.  I know that prior to Monday I felt the same as I always had for the past 29 years, but then, once I sat in that bright doctor’s office, having a consultation, something changed.
When I left, I cried in my car.  I don’t know why.  The samples of blood, the possibilities both good and bad, the miracle, the chances this may not work, the medicines, THE HORMONES.  It all just coated my body and the steering wheel was the shoulder I had.
Today I went back to the hospital for more tests.  Another ultrasound and a transvaginal test.  A trans-what?  I asked.  As if holding in 32oz of water in your bladder while someone rolls a wet mouse-like contraption over your lower abdomen is not enough, this transvaginal exam (conducted AFTER I got to pee, thank the Lord) was basically inserting an instrument the length of a pen and the width of a medium carrot into your special spot and pressing it in various places for 18 minutes.  (There was an enormous clock, so, yes, I literally watched the minutes go by.)  All the while someone asking you gently, “Any pain here?  Here?  How ’bout here?”  I don’t know, how painful do you think it is to have a e-carrot exploring your reproductive organs all in the name of a hopeful pregnancy?
I left in a trance.
I parked my car in a shopping complex and wandered from store to store, staring past everything and wondering what in the world I was doing.  I came back to life when I realized I had stopped in the cheese section of Whole Foods, where I cannot afford to shop, and was munching on sample cheese with sample crackers with sample pineapple and sample guacamole like I was at Old Country Buffet.  The produce worker was staring at my disheveled state.  
I grabbed an organic spaghetti squash and pretended I was going to buy it to normalize my appearance.
Is this normal?  Wandering around Cleveland in shock after having your whoo-ha examined for 45 minutes and you end up stealing sample munchies from Whole Foods?
Well, for me, it’s normal.
I just had my 1999 surgical notes and pathology report sent to my current doctor, who is, by the way, a human Mrs. Potts from Beauty and the Beast.
Test results back in a few days.

GO OHIO VOTERS! Make me proud!

My, my, my – how impressed am I to be an Ohioan?…it sounds as if there was an effort to pick up and transport homeless Cleveland-ers and get them to register and vote.  Without such service, most likely, these folks would not have been able to vote.

I hope we continue to do more for homeless issues than just offer a ride to the polling stations.
But this is a decent start.
Not bad, Cleveland.  Not bad at all.

More Ohio Feminism

I’ve been a Cleveland-er now for 5 weeks and I just heard about this: children gassed in a Dayton mosque?

Um, Hello, Ohio?  Why was this not covered in mainstream media?  Why was this ignored?
How could I, a resident and avid reader of both newspaper and online sources not have heard of this until now?
I think it’s now my moral responsibility to swing this swing state toward a classroom that teaches media justice.

Taking the Good and the Bad: A Poetic Update

With gaining a brother (in-law), you lose a sister to Knoxville
A brand new front loading washing machine, a leaky valve
Fresh black tires for the Corolla means a new rustling noise for Bill to diagnose
A gorgeous wedding in Long Beach Island, New Jersey lends itself to overeating in a major, major way

Hitting Philadelphia traffic is nauseating, but we were able to visit the Rocky statue (aka the most important monument in my life)
October Fall means trying to understand how to turn on a furnace for the first time
Nick leaving for El Salvador in 36 hours means begging my sister to move in for a few days
An impending fun Cincinnati trip this weekend means more traveling in the car
Wonderful opportunities to write means harsh editors and quick deadlines

Sending out resumes for awesome jobs means email rejections from time to time
Having so many terrific friends who choose the same Saturday wedding date means horrendous choosing for us (our 100th apology and love to Meg & Dave, Cara & Drew, and Kerri & Chris)

SIGH
[end of poem]

On deck: trip to Cincy for me, trip to El Salvador for Nick (5 days)
And then: NYC wedding for my cousin
And then: OSU vs. PENN State game for me, Nick sweating somewhere else in Columbus area

Philippines Eyes US Presidential Election

When I was in the Philippines this summer, I could not even tell you how many Filipinos were engaged in political discussions about the US presidential election. They were fiery dialogues too. The Philippines and the United States are like step siblings, a lot of love, a lot of bitterness, and too much history passed between them.

This article is a decent glimpse into that phenomenon.

Dear Mr. President

In the background of life for the past several months…I’m not one of those musically dramatic people that use the phrase “change my life,” but after someone introduced this song to me, I was quiet for awhile and kept hitting repeat…for almost an hour.