True North...

After the verdict came down last night my feed was FULL of people posting about it. And because it's my feed it was all variations of "Finally!" or "Yay!" or just jokes. Lots and lots of jokes.

Brent and I talked about it at dinner and he said he wasn't celebrating anything because it didn't mean anything just yet. I told him that I understood where he was coming from but that we needed to take the moments that showed he is not above the law, that he does have to face consequences, and celebrate those. But then go right back to making sure he loses the election. Because that's the part that matters. 

So while I was enjoying the moment a friend of mine posted a split screen with Biden and Trump that said the choice is really clear. With Criminal written on Trump's picture and Not a Criminal on Biden's. The first comment under it was that the labels were switched. I rolled my eyes, shook my head and snarked. "Oh was Biden just convicted of 34 felonies? You would think the news would have covered that." his reply was that "He's never convicted." I answered that there might be a reason for that. THEN at that moment I paid attention to the name of the person I was snarking at...oh shit. It was her father. 

Oops. 

As a rule I don't engage with my friend's family members. I am the only liberal in my generation. My siblings are all varying degrees of conservative. Brent's cousins are conservative. They know if they comment on my feed that they will be met with push back, usually by me, but often by friends. But I do remind people that these are my family members so watch how you speak to them. Argue, push back, but don't be rude. Now those of you who are on Facebook with me are thinking, I don't think I've seen your family post...that's because they all pretty much have me hidden. Bah, bah, black sheep, and all that...

But for me, because I know that you don't get to choose your family's politics I don't engage. I don't argue with them. Unless they argue first. If they comment on one of my comments I will step up. I used to argue religion with a friend's son quite frequently. I don't think he changed his mind, but she did so that's one more soul on my unsaved list. (Kidding, I don't actually have a list)

I was thinking about this again this morning, trying to decide if I should delete my snark, and started thinking about my parents.

It might sound odd to say, but I got my political beliefs from my father. Not my party. Not my feelings around conservatism or liberalism, but politics in general. When Reagan put Bork up for the Supreme Court my father, a staunch conservative, was not amused. It wasn't because of Bork's extreme conservative views, my dad would have been okay with that. It was because of Nixon. Bork stepped up and took over when Nixon's AG said he wouldn't fire the special prosecutor. Bork said, Sure thing! My father thought it was wrong. Deeply wrong. So Bork was unfit for the court in his opinion. 

That was my father. Politically he might align with someone but if morally he did not then he had nothing for them. That's what I mean by my politics align with my father's. I don't vote straight party line tickets. I don't vote without at least trying to get an idea of who the person is. I believe in ethical voting. The belief that you should vote in a way that does the least harm. Right now that means I pretty much do vote straight Democratic party, because I believe right now the Republican party will do the most harm.

My father was an elder in our church. That's basically like the board of directors for a corporation. These were the men (always men) who would guide the church. When my sister was a teenager and was in her full moment of addiction, my father resigned his post. He said he did not have his own house in order and so could not in good faith claim to have any say in how God's house was run. I remember this being such a big moment for me personally in my feelings about my father, and my church.

Because it was a smaller church, we all knew who was trouble and who wasn't. My sister wasn't the only rebellious teen. So I expected a mass resignation after my dad. And it did not come. The elder whose son sold drugs to my sister stayed. Later the elder whose son tried to rape me dared to summon me to talk about my rebelliousness. 

My father stood up and said, I am not upholding my part of the deal and so I resign. The rest of them did not. 

Because my father's moral compass was set to true north. 

I fully believe that it didn't have anything to do with faith, or a bible verse, or a religious conviction, it was just who my dad was. Yes, he was religious, but no, I don't think he needed that to do the right thing. He just did the right thing. 

I remember when I was very little, like maybe 4 or 5 we lived in a townhouse complex and my sister, my middle brother and I were playing outside. There was a group of kids that did something, stole toys or pushed someone around, I can't remember for sure, I think it was stole toys. Well my father chased them down and made them come back to where we were, then stood all of us in a circle to tell our sides of what happened. Like 7 kids and my dad. He made everyone talk and then resolved the issue. I remember seeing those other kids and how scared they were, and then how surprised they were when nobody yelled (my parents NEVER yelled), nobody got hit, they just got talked to about how to be better. And as far as I remember they were better. Like everyone ended up friends. 

That was my dad. 

My mother used to say he was slow to anger but once you got him there he didn't let go. I like to think that he was that way because he was really measuring things. Is this worth it? Is this a reason to get mad or is this something I can solve? And is this someone who did a bad thing or is this someone who is bad? The former got a pass, a moment to change, the later, he was just done with you. 

My mother had a flashier temper. She was quick to anger, but also quick to forgive. I used to joke that I got both pieces, I am quick to anger and I never forgive. It's more a joke, especially now, but it was pretty true when I was younger. I was a live wire and you better be careful getting too close. 

My mother was also deeply religious, in fact we found out when Dad died that he hadn't been baptized into our church until their wedding day. You knew it was my mother who made it a prerequisite for the marriage. My dad might have loved god but he LOVED mom.

She was a Republican until the day she died. 

But she didn't vote for Trump. She sure as hell didn't vote for Hillary but she couldn't bring herself to vote Trump. He was a terrible human in her eyes. And Gary Johnson gave her the off ramp she needed. 

I know who she voted for because we talked about it. We talked politics often, even though it was incredibly frustrating. I'm sure for both of us. Being the youngest, being a woman, being raised by the same people as her other children, she could never understand where she had gone wrong. But I don't think she did. (obviously) I think she and Dad instilled a set of beliefs in me. A set of characteristics on judging other people. And I took those and looked at what I believed, and what I knew to be true in my heart and mind and went a different direction. 

She also told me that she would vote for me if I ran for office. I told her I never could because I wouldn't sign off every speech with God Bless the USA. And she told me if I did I would be the first politician to pretend to believe in god. I laughed, and she told me that at least I would do what was right. 

She had faith in me to do what was right even if I didn't believe in her religious reasons for why. 

I didn't need them. I had her and I had Dad. They set my moral compass at true north. 

Well How About That?

My goal for this month was to make sure I caught up to where I was last year. Which meant I needed to write something everyday. 

Today I have been restocking the freezer with beans and peas and such because Brent smoked a large pork shoulder on Sunday. So I was planning on sitting down to write when that was done. Technically they are still on the stove cooking but they are close to done. 

And I had been turning over a lot of ideas about what to write. Pride Month is almost here and it's a fraught Pride this year. Last year was bad, this year is worse. I also was going to possibly write about the ethics of voting. 

And then while I was stirring the pots on the stove the national pot just got a big old stir. 

Trump was found guilty on all 34 counts in his election fraud trial.

Wow.

And I do mean wow. 

I honestly did not think it would happen. We are so used to seeing him break laws and commit high crimes and misdemeanors in public view and nothing happening to him that I didn't think this would either. 

Even with E. Jean Carroll winning her case I still didn't think this one would hold.

It's just almost too much to hope for that he actually face any consequences. 

And it is too much to hope for that it will make a difference to his voters. 

I mean the E. Jean Carroll case is the equivalent of being found guilty of rape and they either have no idea because their media bubble did not cover the judge saying, in effect, Yeah that's what this means so stop calling her a liar for saying you raped her. That's the whole defamation part, you dolt! OR because they don't fucking care. He says it didn't happen so it didn't happen. That's all they need. 

This will be the same. They will say it was a politically motivated witch hunt and blah blah blah...

But he was still found guilty of all 34 counts. Right now he is a convicted felon. 

And that means he can't vote in the upcoming election. Even if he is appealing it. He still cannot even vote for himself.* 

What are the odds he commits voter fraud?

So yeah, this will be all from my brain today. I didn't think it would happen. I still am not convinced it will make any difference at all, or more accurately, convinced it won't. But it did happen. 

Twice impeached.
Liable for defamation against E. Jean Carroll because he did in fact sexually assault her.
Now a convicted felon. 

Finger's crossed the other cases are still brought forward and the guilty verdicts keep on coming. It won't convince the MAGAts, but it's still super satisfying to see. 

Guilty. 

Repeat that 33 more times...

*Edit: Turns out he can vote for himself. Because Florida law states that you can vote if the state you were convicted in allows felons to vote. So not nearly as funny as it was, but I do believe that restoration of rights is important, even if it's TFG's rights. So... 

A Lifetime...

Her hair had started to come out in clumps. 

What a weird phrase. But one everyone understood. Masses of hair just letting go all at once. Covering her hands as she washed what was remaining. It was almost time. 

She'd like to say it was unexpected but it wasn't. She had known it was coming. Had been preparing for it. She had told her wife that she loved her. She had been to the lawyer's office and made all of the final arrangements, making sure that all of the paperwork was in order. For her wife and for herself. She had already set up her successor on the board and talked about future plans. Though she knew full and well that what she wanted to do was not necessarily what would be done. Once she was gone she had no more control. She could only hope that this time she had chosen well. 

She hadn't always. 

But you do this enough times and you learn. 

She had lost count by now but this was well over 1000 lifetimes. 

Or partial lifetimes at least. 

Though that did count the multiple loops where she started a new life on its last day. Rebirth, death, rebirth, death, rebirth, death, over and over and over in a new vessel each time. That was some petty bullshit. But a quick reminder that a continual loop would mean both of them were stuck forever and the next time she opened her eyes it was in a hospital room with a very worried doctor looking on, "I thought we'd lost you, little man."

So she'd started all over with that one. 

That was the great mystery of her life now. Where would the next one start? Would she be a newborn? Or would she come in to a life already in progress, so to speak. Though no matter which life she joined the original owner had moved on. One soul per vessel, thank you very much. Her preference was to take over at around 20, but she didn't get to choose. Not age, not gender, not location. Dealer's choice. 

But no matter what the vessel looked like, no matter the set of memories she inherited, she was still her inside.

That had been her wish afterall. She had wanted eternal life. And also to not grow too old. She didn't want her body to age past 40. Which at the time had been a decent and normal lifespan. If she had realized that eventually that would change she would have chosen a higher age. That and she would have been more careful with her wording and clarified it was her body she wanted to be in, not just any body. Though, honestly, looking back now though starting over again and again had its drawbacks trying to hide the fact that she never aged would have had its own challenges as well. And she would have had a much harder time amassing her first fortunes. Which turned into her first cause. 

It was easier being a man for most of her lives. She was taken more seriously. She was able to set up trusts and arrange for money to be available for her the next time around. People listened when she spoke and didn't try to steal from her nearly as often. When she had realized how much easier it was to be a man she started to fight for equal rights. When she realized how difficult it was to live in a body that was viewed as disabled she began to fight for equal access. She knew what it was like to be a woman trapped inside a body that was not the gender she knew she was and so was an early advocate for trans rights. 

They say that travel is the best way to develop empathy for people who are different than you, she knew a better way, but living a life that is not the life you were born into wasn't really an option for most people. How many genies were out there in the wild? And how many people were able to make a wish that didn't immediately backfire on them?

You had to be precise in your wording and you had to look at all angles to see where it might trip you up. Genies didn't particularly like fulfilling wishes. Her guess was that as a people they had bargained with something else to get the power to live forever but hadn't specified how so this was their fate. Trapped in a bottle or lamp waiting to be set free only to have to serve the person who set them free by granting them three wishes. She did understand that there were a certain number of cycles that had to be fulfilled and then the genie would be free of their confines. Still beholden to anyone who figured out what they were, but it would be easier to hide if they weren't trapped in a lamp. 

They were also tied to the person who found them until three wishes were made. No matter how long it took. 

She had made two so far. She kept the third as an insurance policy. If she grew bored with eternal life she wanted a way out and how many times could she expect to find a genie? So they had been bound together for over 1000 lifetimes. She didn't think it was that terrible of a situation for the genie. They were free to wander the world, to live as they chose, not having to go back into their lamp. They could if they wanted to. If they felt like hiding away. But they didn't need to wait to be released when they were done. They had access to the world. And nobody could force them into service because they were still tied to her. 

But freedom is its own draw and they just wanted to be free. Not waiting constantly to see if she was going to use that last wish. On purpose or by accident. So sometimes they were petty and tried their best to make her miserable. Surely she would wish for death if she was in an eternal loop of living and dying right? But she had outstubborned them. Letting them know she would do that forever if she had to and as long as she did, that third wish would never be made. She hadn't wished for death then, just let it be known she would do that loop forever if she had to. She hadn't wished for an easier life in any of the incarnations that had been challenging, painful, terrifying. The one thing she always knew is that it would end. On that vessel's 40th birthday at the latest. But generally in their 39th year. 

She had been careful. Never wished upon a star or birthday candles or a loose eyelash. Never used the word casually in conversation. She hoped. She never wished. And so far it had worked. 

And now she was coming to the end of another life. She had taken over this one when the original owner had a skiing accident at 10 years old. What would have been a tragedy for their family ended up being celebrated as a miracle. There was no medical reason why she had survived but sometimes things were unexplainable like that. Of course she hadn't survived. The original her that had lived in this body and loved strawberry ice cream and racing down mountains and dreamed of Olympic glory, she had moved on. To what the new owner of her body didn't know. Had originally never wanted to know, but lately realized that she was tired. Tired of the endless living. 

But for now there was still so much she wanted to accomplish. She would take the next life, or maybe the next few, and replenish her accounts. Refill the coffers. Make sure she had the money the next time she restarted in a life that was primed to be good at doing good. She'd keep fighting for a better world. One that she could look back on and see the changes, the ones she had some small part in bringing forward. 

A voice buzzed in her head. 

That they had helped bring forward. Yes, together they had done a lot of good. And all you could hope for was that they could continue to do so for at least a few more cycles. She hoped it would be enough.

Hoped. 

She said hope. 

Oh It's Me...

A friend posted something today that kind of got stuck in my head in a tangle of other things I've seen or talked about lately, which is a cue to me to write it all down. Sometimes these collections stick together and sometimes they don't. Let's see which one this will be, shall we?

The post was a screenshot of another post with the first comment showing "Part of maturity is looking back and realizing you were toxic too" and the comment was "If you can look back at your past and not cringe it means you haven't grown or changed." 

Earlier today I was watching an Instagram clip from someone talking about how hard it was growing up gay in the 90s and early 2000s. That homophobia and transphobia permeated everything and if you weren't gay or trans it was so pervasive that at the time you didn't even notice. A straight friend of his had gone back and watched some old episodes of a comedy that they used to love and had been shocked about how homophobic it was. He said, who knew? The guy making the clip said "I did. And every gay friend you had did. And we all laughed along with it because we didn't want to call attention to ourselves." And he grew up in the 90s and early 2000s. It just gets worse the further back you go. Like I've talked about having friends in high school who were out and how rare that was at the time. Even if everyone KNEW you were gay you did not say it. You tried your best to hide it. If you got bullied for being too femme as a guy you were told to act more manly and stop being such a...fill in the choice of slurs here.  

This past weekend when I was talking to Katie she was telling me about a movie she had seen the previous weekend. It was one that really meant something to her and she is interested to see what my take on it will be. Because it's a queer allegory. Or more specifically a trans allegory. We talked about how no matter how much I can try I will never experience life the same way she does because I'm not trans. I will view things through that cis lense. And then she said that a few critics have pointed out that it also seems to be a reflection on Buffy the Vampire Slayer and how looking back at it how problematic it was. 

Which I told her to shut her fucking mouth. 

Just kidding, I didn't. I told her that I hadn't gone back and rewatched Buffy in a long time and I didn't think I would again. Because it's too important to me. Then asked if she understood what I meant by that. She got it. 

Buffy, at the time, and for the time, was really progressive. But Joss Whedon isn't a good guy. And there were things in there that were clearly not great, even at the time. The turning point in the Spike story line, for instance. But we papered over a lot of the issues with retconning and love for other things about the show. But I won't watch it now because I wouldn't be able to look past some of the things that I'm sure are there that I didn't notice. Because it was pervasive and if it didn't directly affect you, you just didn't see it. But Buffy was important to me. It was a show that spoke to me. It and Angel actually meant something more to me than just a TV show story. It colored my life in a different way. 

I don't do rewatches of most older shows. I tried going back and rewatching Friends a few years ago. Everyone seemed to be on a kick of binging it and I thought, what the heck, it's something I can turn on when I don't have to really concentrate and I watched it all the first time and really liked it so...

Yeah. No. I mean I remembered it was incredibly white. Like even for the time when everything on TV was incredibly white they got push back. And so they added a Black character. A. For awhile. Then went back to just them. But it's also homophobic, transphobic and fatphobic. Like constantly. I'll just stick with my memories of the parts that weren't. I don't need to have the rest spoiled by remembering that they made Chandler's dad trans just for the jokes. Or Ross's ex-wife a lesbian for the same reason. Or that Monica in a fat suit dancing was a whole joke on its own. Just that. A joyous fat girl, hilarious. 

When Katie was younger we did a rewatch for me, first watch for her, of a lot of the John Hughes films that defined my teenage years. Now, I will be honest and I've always railed against Sixteen Candles. Like from the moment I walked out of the theater, much to the hate of all of my friends. But almost all of them are terrible. Ferris Bueller's Day Off was about the only one that held up. The rest had Katie looking on in horror at times. But it was all really normal at the time. We were like the woman in the Palmolive commercial...we were soaking in it. (Only a smaller and older handful of you will get that reference)

But now when we reread books or rewatch shows or think about our own word choices or friend choices we see the things we would not do now. We wouldn't laugh at certain jokes. In fact we'd say something to the joke teller like What the Fuck is wrong with you? Or So what, exactly, makes that joke funny? Explain it to me. That second one is actually a good one to toss out. Start out by saying you don't get it. Then ask why it's funny. Make them explain it to you. They might still go out and tell racist, sexist, queerphobic, jokes but at least you will have made them really look at it at best or embarassed the fuck out of them, which might actually be the best part now that I think about it. 

But that's change. We change. We evolve. We progress. It's why the Right rails against "woke" because they don't want to. It's uncomfortable to look back and realize that you were being racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, fatphobic, or just a general asshole. Nobody likes to think of themselves that way. But if you are changing, if you are growing as a person part of that is knowing that who you were 15 years ago is not who you are now. And that's okay. 

So you either get to rail against the change and demand your right to be an asshole that is never questioned, or you change and grow and stop being an asshole.

I know I have been a person in the past that I would smack down in the present and I also know that right now I say things and believe things that I won't in 15 years. Because I'm always changing. I'm always trying to grow. 

But I'm also okay with letting somethings remain important enough to me not to fuck with now. Buffy won't get a rewatch, but I'll always love it. I won't watch Friends but I will sing Smelly Cat to my boys and ask Brent How you doin? And that's also okay. Take the good parts and leave the rest. 

Change and growth are uncomfortable but staying the same is worse.  

Memorial Day Times Two...

I normally give a lecture about Memorial Day on my Facebook feed. It's not the unofficial kick off to summer. It's not the start of BBQ season. It's not Veteran's Day or Armed Forces' Day. It's a very specific day of remembrance. It's for those that did not make it. The whole all gave some and some gave all moment. 

I've gotten so much push back from people when I correct them, or when Brent corrects them, for thanking him for his service on Memorial Day. First off, he really doesn't like it when people thank him for his service at any time, but on Memorial Day especially. Memorial Day is for those that did not live. Stolen valor is a giant taboo in the service and there is no worse stolen valor than to take away the focus on Memorial Day.

But people are offended when they are corrected. As if "I was trying to be nice" means it's okay. 

It's not. 

And I do understand that you were trying to be nice, but take the correction. 

This year Memorial Day is also in our window of we don't know. We don't know when Brent's mother actually died. Her official date is May 29. But it could have been today, or tomorrow. The last time anyone saw her was early on the 27th. She was going to go to bed and try and recover. She stopped answering texts the evening of the 27th but we don't know if she was just asleep or if she was already gone by then. Her friend didn't break into the house and find her until the 29th after she didn't respond to messages the 27, 28 and 29. And after the police went to the wrong house for the check. 

So we are in the we don't know period. Her official date of death is the 29th, but we are pretty sure that that is not it. It seems more likely that it was the 27th or 28th. 

Forget what you know from watching police procedurals, there was no coroner looking at her body before they loaded it up and saying, well clearly she died on this date at this time. It's all estimates. And with the backlog of deaths at the morgue we were lucky to get a death certificate within a few weeks. If we had wanted a full autopsy it would have been months before they could get to her. 

Because so many people were dying right then.

Which is why the "Are you better off now than you were four years ago?" bullshit that Trump's lackies are trying is so infuriating. Four years ago we had refrigerator trucks lined up outside morgues while he talked about injecting bleach. Yes, we are clearly better off now than we were then. 

But today is Memorial Day. A moment to remember Jack, to remember Ann and to be grateful for all of the people who are being remembered by their friends and family. 

And to wish, as always, that the wars would stop. That we would stop sending our children to die for lines on maps. For resources that if the world decided to share there is enough for everyone to share. That we would stop dropping bombs on children and justifying it by saying it's either their children or ours. We don't have to kill each other. It's a choice we make. And we continue to make the wrong choice. 

Remember that today. 

And every day.  

Keeping it 100....

This is the 100th blog of the year. I thought about posting a banked fiction piece but since I got something worked out for my Dana exchange early I decided to write a new piece. 

I like milestones. I mean, milestones are basically just gold stars right? But I'm not the only one who likes them. Everyone talks about milestones. Heck, we celebrate the calendar turning over every year. EVERY YEAR. And when it's a big one, like the 1999 to 2000 switch we really go crazy. 

I mean literally crazy on that one with the Y2K hullabaloo. 

But milestones, road markers, check points. We all like them.

It's part of what made Weight Watchers such a terrible idea for me. You got a new reward at every 5 pounds lost and at certain percentages of your body weight lost and a different goals. It was like a continual milestone/gold star machine. I would have kept going for a lot longer than I did if people hadn't started to say, "Umm...you are supposed to stop when you reach your goal weight..."

But I love a good milestone. I love a good gold star. 

And then at the same time I think we put too much pressure on them. We expect there to be some sort of magic to them that there just isn't. Like New Year's Eve. We celebrate that change and then we make all sorts of resolutions to do things differently. Like we are going to wake up on January 1st somehow fundamentally changed from who we woke up as on December 31st. 

We expect Valentine's Day to be the most romantic and special day of the year. 

We expect to wake up feeling more grown-up and mature on our 18th birthday.

We think that there is going to be some sort of fundamental change in our relationships after we say I do. 

But that's not how it works. 

The change for New Year's Resolutions starts long before January 1st. Or at least it should if you have any hope of making them stick. If you want to work out more, you need to have the plan in place on how that's going to happen. When are you going to do it? How are you going to make it happen? Do you really want to do it in the first place? Because if you don't, you won't stick with it. Because, and here is the secret from someone who has worked out consistently for decades. It often just sucks. It can be boring. It can be tiring. There are 100 other things you'd rather do right then, and a lot of them including sleeping or sitting on the couch. You have to have a plan that started long before that milestone date. 

Most of you know I don't celebrate Valentine's Day or Mother's Day. I think they are days that set people up to be disappointed. Katie calls me almost every week. I would hate to trade that for her taking me out to breakfast or sending me a card once a year. My idea of romantic is when Brent sends me a meme of a skeleton saying something funny, because it shows that he knows who I am. I would not appreciate a dozen roses and a fancy dinner once a year instead. When Valentine's Day rolls around and people ask him what he's doing for me he says, "We don't celebrate, she expects me to tell her I love her every day."

And look at this blog. It's the 100th blog of the year so I feel like it should be something big and different but really it's just the same thing as always. Me telling you what I think about the world. 

And what I think is that I love a good gold star and milestone marker and I also think that a lot of the markers we choose do more harm than good. Don't wait for a special day to tell someone how much you love them. Don't think you are going to feel like a grown-up just because you turned 18, or 21, or 35 or 55 (I'll let you know what 56 brings). Don't think you are going to turn into a brand new person just because you are writing a new year on your checks, or whatever the equivalent is now that we don't use checks! 

And don't think that a wedding day is what makes a marriage. Everyone knows what makes a marriage is skeleton memes. 

Almost...

Looking at my On This Day feed on Facebook for last year and I made a post about writing my 100th blog of the year. This will be my 99th, so I'm almost caught up. If I continue to write every day this month by the end of May I will be exactly on track. 

Not that it matters...but...it matters.

Then if I just write 5 fiction pieces and 13 nonfiction pieces a month I will hit the goal I set for last year. If I write more than that I will hit the numbers I hit last year. Do we have any bets on which on I will actually aim for?

I do know that writing has been really challenging this year and it will just get worse. I don't want to keep harping on the election what what TFG is doing right now but it takes up so much oxygen that it's hard to find other things to write about. 

I also know I've written about pretty much everything from my past, and what makes me me and I'd guess that even the first time through it wasn't all that interesting to anyone else but me. I mean it's my navel I'm gazing at, I don't expect you all to find it all that enthralling. 

But then again, I treat my blog as a journal, not a literary masterpiece so if it's filled with the same stories over and over that is what I'm thinking about at the time so maybe it's no big deal? 

I guess what I'm saying is you can expect a few pieces about TFG when I just need to get the noise out of my head. A lot of pieces on my ongoing body acceptance struggles and maybe some stuff on what I'm starting to learn about VAST (also known as ADHD or ADD). 

I'm also doing Duolingo with Brent and starting over on my Spanish so maybe I'll write about that bossy owl. 

OH! And I think I mentioned, I picked back up Calm to try and well, find a way to calm my head down at times. I've tried so many times over the years to meditate and I sort of unlocked the secret last time I was using Calm. Your goal isn't to have a clear head. Your goal is to recognize the thoughts then let them go. Don't ruminate, don't dwell, don't overthink. Oh! Well that's...not much easier actually, but at least it's doable. 

It's kind of funny in a way, or at least to me. I started this year wanting to have no goals because I didn't think I needed them, it's not like what I do changes much based on a goal or not. Then I discovered that even if I'm doing the same things I feel better if there is a goal around them. And now I'm sort of figuring out that I feel even better if I stuff a lot into my head. The language, the meditation, the nonfiction reading, the fiction reading, the nonfiction writing, the fiction writing, all of the things it takes to run the house. It's sort of like if my head is really stuffed then I don't run in circles chasing the same half dozen patterns. 

Either that or I am on the verge of a manic cycle and later this year when it leaves I will be dragging my ass in here to try and find ANYTHING to write about because NOTHING is sparking interest. 

I have a feeling it's a little bit of both. 

And, oh my goodness would I love to have a bit of a manic cycle. So productive! If I could figure out how to trigger small ones without the inevitable swing back I would be so happy. 

Brent says cocaine. 

He's joking. Sort of.

But I do imagine that's why people use cocaine or meth. It gives that bump of energy and clarity the first time, or first few times. Then it all falls apart. Manic depression through chemistry. 

It's why I have never done any drug aside from alcohol. I'm just not sure what my particular brain chemistry would do if I altered it like that. I'll keep my own natural highs and lows and manage them through exercise and food and gold stars. 

(As an aside, if you need medication to manage your own chemistry there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I've talked with different doctors over the years about medication and we've all agreed that for now I manage my mental health well enough through food, exercise, and my own coping skills, BUT if I ever have a depressive cycle like I did a few years ago I will for sure medicate. It's just like diabetes or high blood pressure or anything else that you might need help regulating. Better living through science.)

And yeah, I know as you read this you are thinking, Oh for sure edge of a manic cycle. But also know we went to Insomnia for coffee and what you are actually seeing right now is extra coffee and no workout so...

Brain dump for the 99th blog. Now to think of something profound for #100 tomorrow. 

Or I will pull a fiction piece from the Dana files and you'll get that. 

Most likely that because I haven't written for the Dana exchange yet and I'll probably focus on that tomorrow instead. 

Okay, that's it. Now is where you regret ever thinking, I wonder what it's like inside her head...

What Would You Give?

What would you give up to get something else? 

I've always said that I'd like to be one of those people that just views food as fuel. That it would make it so much easier. 

Because I love to eat. I have an involuntary happy dance that happens when something is really good. 

Even now with the dietary restrictions I have I still have what we call cheat meals. I know it's possibly going to mess with my digestive system or I'm going to break out in itchy hives, but I still eat my very favorites every few months. It's worth it to me. And if I'm really careful the rest of the time, the problems those foods cause when I do eat them is minimal.

But now there is an option for food to just be fuel. Semaglutide. They are figuring out that that is why it works for weight loss. At the higher doses it dulls out the pleasure center of your brain. It's why it's also working for gambling addiction and alcoholism. You don't get the pop of YAY! So you just don't crave it anymore. You break that pleasure loop and so your brain stops seeking it. Food is just fuel. 

I'm not super heavy but this is America so I could absolutely find a doctor willing to prescribe it for me. Convincing Brent that it's worth over $1000 a month might be trickier, but I bet I could do that as well. And then once I started I could stop being obsessive about my weight. I could ditch a lifetime of disordered eating. I could FINALLY be done with it all. And that is really tempting. 

All for the low low price of $1200 a month, possible nausea and diarrhea, weekly injections and doing this for the rest of my life. 

Oh and that whole losing the pleasure in eating part. 

I worked with a woman quite a few years ago who was just naturally skinny. Not thin, not svelte, skinny. She could not put on weight. Which, of course, seems like not a problem to most of us when you hear about it, but it was a problem for her. People constantly commented on her size. And she had a hard time regulating her body temperature, and her periods were super irregular. Everyone assumed she was anorexic. But it was because she didn't enjoy eating. She just didn't get pleasure out of it. She ate enough to stay alive, basically.

You could never tempt her with goodies. No salty or sweet treats made her run to the breakroom to make sure she got one before they were all gone. When we ate together she would have two or three bites and then sort of force herself to have a few more. She just didn't like it. The food itself brought her no pleasure. Eventually a nutritionist put her on those Ensure shakes they give to older people to make sure they get enough calories. She drank a few of those a day as well as a pretty strict diet of things she "had" to eat to get her nutrition in. She viewed it just like medicine at that point. And it worked to get her to a little healthier weight. Still very slim, but at least she started menstruating again.

She saw food strictly as fuel at that point. 

When people undergo chemotherapy they lose their appetites. Same thing. Food doesn't taste good. It doesn't smell good. It can cause nausea. They lose weight. One of the times that my mom was pretty sure she was going to have to start chemo again she told me, "I'm glad, I've gained a little weight and this will make me lose it." I come by my disordered eating naturally. 

A lot of people lost their sense of smell and taste with Covid. They lost weight too. When food loses it's pleasurability we stop eating. 

Which to me means that our bodies were designed to find food pleasurable. To make sure we eat. And that something major has to happen for us to not have that drive. We lose our sense of smell or taste. We circumvent the pleasure we get from eating with the pleasure we get from controlling our eating. (Hello, anorexia!) Or now we inject ourselves with a drug four times a month that dulls the pleasure center in our brains so we no longer feel the need to eat our favorite foods. 

Would you be willing to dull the pleasure you find in life to be thinner? 

How much does being thinner mean to you? 

Does it mean more than the happy dance inducing warm chocolate chip cookie? 

I have always said that I wish I viewed food as fuel and not pleasure. 

Turns out I was wrong.

Whichever Way the Wind Blows...

Today is the first day of the winds.

She'd been preparing all season. Getting everything ready for them. They'd last a week. They would build for a few days before the strongest winds started. Then they would gradually die off again. In the middle it would seem like they were never going to stop, but by the end you'd realize it wasn't very long at all. 

Which is why you had to prepare.

If you started the day you felt the first breeze you'd never make it. 

Last year she had been battered by the strong winds and she swore she'd never be unprepared again. 

She had tied down anything that was loose in the yard. Or anything that might be knocked loose. She had inspected the roof to make sure all the tiles were secure. She had checked her downspouts and siding. The house was solid. It had survived multiple winds and should survive multiple more. 

After checking the outside of the house she had moved to the inside. She filled two tubs with water just incase the systems were knocked out. Then she covered them with tarps to make sure no sifting dirt muddied the water. No matter how sealed you thought your house was the winds always found a leak. 

She checked the pantry and the deep freeze. There was a variety of food stuffs laid up. Whatever you liked to eat you should be able to find something. 

Lastly she checked her go bag. All of her important documents were there. Her IDs, her bank cards, some cash, a few changes of underwear and some snacks. Everything ready. 

The breezes were picking up now. Definitely some gusts happening. 

But this year she was ready. 

One more walk through the house. 

She had loved living here. It was probably why she had waited too long last year. Subconsciously she hadn't wanted to go. But when the winds hit their peak you couldn't resist. And if you aren't ready you might not survive. She nearly hadn't. 

She had stayed inside, huddled in a closet, hoping to ride it out. Until she couldn't resist anymore and then she had run outside trying to catch the edge. But it was long past, all that was left was the force behind it. And it slammed her to the ground. Then picked her up just enough to slam her down again. Over and over for hours. 

She was lucky to have survived. 

And lucky that nobody from downwind dropped at her place. If they had they would have had all rights to kick her out. As it was she stayed on another year. But she knew that she had been lucky and it wouldn't be likely to happen again. 

She stopped and listened as another gust hit the house. It was time. 

She did one last walk through. Touching the counters and walls. Saying goodbye. She really had loved her place. Hopefully where ever she landed would be as well tended. 

Strapping her go bag to her body she climbed the ladder to the roof and readied herself on the launching pad. The edge of the storm was coming and she needed to catch it this time. 

(writing prompt, Someone is moved by the wind )

Short...

I've read a few things lately that talk about the fact that there is no such thing as writer's block. 

For instance, right now even though I am completely stuck on a story I was going to post today and can't think of the next line I do NOT have writer's block, because I am writing this. 

The times that I've heard that or read it I've thought...oh that's inter...GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK YOU KNOW WHAT PEOPLE MEAN!

Okay, so maybe I am not taking the advice to heart in the way they would like. 

But it seems like kind of a dick thing to say, in my opinion. It seems like a way of lessening what I view as an issue. Right now I have writer's block and it's really frustrating because I know the shape of the story I want to write but I can't get it out of my head and onto the screen. I know that I don't literally have a block against writing anything at all. That would be horrific for sure, but I am stuck on the thing I would like to be writing. 

I also wanted to make sure I posted something everyday for the rest of this month so that means you get this little whining piece. Which is also not really going anywhere because my brain is stuck on my totally not writer's block moment in the short story I was trying to get done. 

Ugh...

Oh! And while I was doing everything but write I rewatched the reels I posted last year during the Picture of the Day challenge that she did as a reel challenge. 

I have a very animated face when I talk. No wonder I have so many wrinkles. I work that shit out when I speak!

And now I will be self conscious about it for a bit until I forget again. 

But it should freak Brent out a little while I try and hold my face still while I talk. 

Maybe he'll think I got Botox...

Oh... the Botox is probably why I have writer's block. It froze everything. 

What? Pretend Botox could totally cause writer's block if it's not a real thing either. 

I'm pretty sure that's how that works...

What Do I Know...

I was reading my On This Day posts this morning and got to reread a few different "discussions" from over the years. Basically me arguing with men of a certain age. Specifically white men of a certain age. And noticing that very often they would get sort of indignant that even after stating their thoughts I didn't change mine. 

And being someone who is empathetic I could understand their frustration. They had been raised in a world where the arguments of old white guys had always carried more weight. And then suddenly they were in a world where that just doesn't automatically happen anymore. Women and people of color argue back and don't just bow down to their opinions. They must really feel cheated. 

Now, I'm empathetic not sympathetic. I can understand why they would feel so frustrated but I don't feel sorry for them that they do. Because the world they came up in changed while they were in the world. They had the option to change along with it and they didn't, or to just be different even before it changed (Brent has never fallen into that trap for instance). They didn't choose those options so instead they ended up in my feed arguing with me and getting more and more frustrated when I wouldn't just adopt their mindset. They had no real solid reasons why I should agree with them, or why what I was saying was incorrect, they just felt they were right and that should be enough. 

It wasn't. 

Today I also had one of those "Hey send me a friend request" scammers come back to my no with a "I'm just trying to be your friend" reply. Aside: For those of you that don't know, I answer those comments back. The ones that happen when you post on a public space and they think you're brilliant, or kind, or pretty, or funny or they are lonely widowers looking for someone to talk to or whatever they think will get you to send them a friend request or answer the one waiting for you in your inbox. I generally take one line out of their plea and use it as part of my no. Or I just say no. Because no is a complete sentence as well. 

But when he replied it was so much like the guys that follow you down the street when you don't respond to them or don't respond the way they want you to. "Hey! I'm being nice, slow down and talk to me!" And the not zero number of them that go from that to screaming at you about being a bitch or not even that pretty. It's a joy. 

When I posted about that a friend of mine made the joke asking if I had considered not being a woman on the internet. 

It's funny because it's true. Right now I have over 60 messages from strangers in my Facebook messenger spam filter most of them starting out with "Hello, beautiful." And I clean it out every once in awhile. And I would guarantee that at least of dozen of them have unsolicited pictures of their dicks. Though that might be fewer now since I think the bots are supposed to be trained to recognize them and block them completely, but considering the number of times I get back a message of "this doesn't violate our Ts&Cs" when reporting spam comments I am not willing to say they've caught all the dicks.

I don't reply to those because if you reply to a message then they can message you all the time and it doesn't end up in your spam filter where you don't see it unless you look. So if you go looking for messages, DON'T answer them. 

So how do these two things tie together? 

My friend who made the joke is not one of those types of guys. I thanked him for getting it. And he deflected the compliment and admitted to deflecting it because compliments make him uncomfortable. Imposter syndrome on steroids. 

So I shared some life advice. Take the compliment. Just say thank you and let it sit. 

And then commented that all of the wrong people have imposter syndrome. It would be nice if a few of the people I was arguing with in those past posts had a touch of doubt. They don't need full on imposter syndrome, but a touch of it wouldn't hurt. 

So what do I know?

I know that I'm not likely to change my position unless you bring a better argument than "because I'm a dude." 

I know that no is a full and complete sentence, even if they just want to be your friend. 

I know that thank you is hard to say sometimes without adding but here is why you shouldn't compliment me... But it's important. Just say thank you. And eventually, hopefully, believe the compliment as well. 

I know that I don't know a lot of things. And as long as I keep learning new ones, that's okay too. 

Another Garden Post...

When we were at the garden center on Sunday we were talking about things that I am already changing in the yard and things I would have/should have done differently with the landscaper. I said we had a language barrier and a failure to communicate. 

Brent said that was the same thing. 

I had to explain that no, it was two different things. The first was with the workers, the actual landscapers for the most part and a little with the owner of the company who did the plans. His English was much better than my Spanish, but with the landscapers my Spanish was better than their English, and my Spanish is not good. So it was difficult at times to say This is what I want, specifically. 

The other was communication as a whole. I wanted some specific things and for the most part I got them, but in other areas he just kind of did what he wanted. 

It all looked okay in the end, but it wasn't exactly what I had wanted. 

Language barrier and communication gap. 

Then I told him that I took the blame because I just was done by that point. There were too many projects, too many changes to each project because of supply chain issues or Covid staffing problems. Everything was more expensive and took longer and people were incredibly busy so it all took multiple attempts to even get started. And I was mentally done. 

I can take about 2-3 setbacks with a company before I just disconnect. There are places I don't do business because they had four. And I'm super understanding for the first two, usually. The third one I'm not. And like I said have another, and we are done. I'm full. 

And because we had so many things going on and so many issues I reached the point where if a project could reasonably be considered completed I would just take what I could get. Which at the time seemed like a good answer, and now while I'm looking at what I'm going to redo and how, it doesn't.

But while we were talking about all of it Brent said, "Sometimes trying to keep you engaged all the way through a project is challenging." Yep.

It really is. 

That's been my challenge all along. I'm a good starter, eventually, after a lot of planning, but I get bored and I just want things done. And if I don't get the time to really plan then it's even worse. 

Like the yard. I had an idea in my head but I couldn't find someone who could execute it at a reasonable price. What we should have done is just waited it out. But Brent hated the dead grass yard and wanted it finished. Along with the cabinets, and the enclosed patio, and the furniture and the window coverings and the unpacking and...

Yeah, it stresses me out to think about it even now. 

So I settled for good enough and now I'm redoing a little bit here and a little bit there. Eventually it will all work out. 

And honestly, who knows, even if I had gone with the really expensive companies I might be in the exact same spot. Sometimes we think we are pretty sure what things should look like and it isn't until we do them that we realize we were wrong and that wasn't what we wanted at all. 

Or at least it happens to me. 

It's so hard to keep me engaged in a project...

Patience...

"We need to see how the wildflowers I planted come in first."

"We can just add things and if we don't like them we can take them back out."

"We've got a lot of plants right now and we are going to get too crowded."

"But not for a long time."

"Gardens take patience. It's going to take years before it's fully established. And yeah, there will be a lot of putting things in and then taking them back out, but we need to let what we have establish first so we actually know what we have."

"But nothing is blooming."

"How about we buy some petunias and put in another color bowl in the backyard, and a few marigolds we can move around as bugs dictate and then the lupine we saw that is in a container and that way you can watch it without it spreading too much or getting anywhere near the cats. How about that?"

So the garden center trip that I thought was to buy a few ground cover plants for the front yard became a little more than that but not quite as much as it would have been if Brent were left to his own devices. 

Brent's parents weren't gardeners. Which is hilarious considering his father's family owned greenhouses and Christmas tree farms. But gardens? Nope. So he's coming at everything from the perspective of us looking at houses with beautiful gardens instead of what it takes to start a garden from scratch. And we are starting a garden from scratch in terrible soil so I have zero idea what will take and what won't. 

He also sees a lot of the really lovely flowers and trees and has zero idea of how much work a few of them are to keep them looking decent. What bugs will come and munch them to the ground. What pruning they will need. What temperamental bastards some of them are. 

He just looks at the end results and is happy. 

Me? I look at all of them and think about hours and hours spent in Mom's garden tending to rose bushes and scads of plants that each needed something different that Mom somehow knew what that was but nobody else could ever remember.

I also remember her just going crazy at times and yanking out plants that had taken over beds and crowded everything else out. Like the year she ripped out all of the nasturtiums and didn't once consider the entire family of wee people that lived under the leaves. I've always been a story weaver, even if I was the only one the stories were for, and I had a whole series around those families, I believe I cried when she pulled them all out and she could not understand why I was so upset. 

Just like Brent can't understand when I veto something that needs mostly shade to thrive when we have a super sunny yard. More sun is good right? Well no, not when it needs more shade. Though sometimes I find him work arounds. Like the fuchsia that I turned into a table top plant instead of a hanging basket and put it on the front porch. Hoping as the summer heats up it will still stay shady under there. It looks good for now at least. Which is better than the two the GARDENERS planted in my side yard that looked great for a small amount of time before they burnt right up. You do this for a living, you should know these things. 

(deep breath)

Another day spent gardening in my "I don't want to ever garden" yard. Hopefully in a few weeks (months) I will see some great results from the wildflowers I planted and be happy to sit outside and stare at them while Brent makes plans for the dozens of things he wants to add. 

I read a story years ago about a haunted gazing ball. So...

BEES!

It's a beautiful garden center even if we weren't buying a thing it's worth the visit.

Still Dead...

Sounds like the title to a fiction piece right? 

It's that time of year where we get a card from the Army Family Outreach group giving their appreciation for Memorial Day and letting us know that there will be a summer get together at some point. 

We call it the "Your Dad's Still Dead" card. 

It's dark humor, but it's ours. 

I've talked about it before. They actually do really good work. Jack has been dead for 17 years and they still reach out once or twice a year. They do not forget. And they have other services we could use if we were interested. If Brent had been a child when his dad died they would have been there to help him with schooling and finding scholarships and using his dad's benefits until he reached majority. They are a good organization as far as what they do. 

Much better than the lip service that our congress people pay to veterans and active duty. The every 2-4 years where they talk about how important they are but then forget as soon as they get in office or retain their office. I've heard it summed up that they are very loyal to the military industrial complex but could give a shit about the actual military service members. And that checks out.

There is a ton of talk about honoring our vets and service members but, spoiler alert, they need a lot more than a "Thank you for your service." 

They need resources. They need counselling. They need home loans and student loans and access to financial planning. They need rehab, both from the physical wear and tear of a lot of those jobs and from the addictions a lot of them end up with. They need access to mental health care that is more than just "deal with it." Their families need help as well. Help reintegrating when the service member comes home from a long tour of duty. Help with moving and how to adjust when you get transferred and have to pull up stakes, again. 

The families need help. The service members themselves need help. 

But the money all goes to weapons manufacturing and companies that build planes the military doesn't even want to use anymore. Oh and into the pockets of the executives of those companies, so not even into the equipment. We wage constant war on our own or by proxy and we make a handful of people very rich doing so. 

Those people have no urge to actually be there for our service members. There is no incentive in that. No reason to point out that thousands of civilians are being slaughtered with our weapons. That a lot of our returning service members will never be whole and okay again as they deal with the moral repercussions of that. When you decide that money is your only goal then people can fuck right off, and you for sure don't want to point out that you are getting obscenely wealthy while killing off those people to the group of people who don't serve yet pay taxes to support you. If you show them what is actually happening they might pressure for a change. Which 17 years after Brent's dad; who served two tours in Vietnam, a tour in Afghanistan and was on his way to Iraq, died I don't see happening. 

But at least we get a lovely "Your Dad's Still Dead" card every year.

Rumor Has It...

I posted about the kicker from The Chiefs and his commencement speech on Facebook. 

What he said is a viewpoint that is held by a not insignificant amount of conservative Christians. It's not a big outlier.  And we should stop acting surprised every time one of them says it in a public or semi public forum. This is what the Christian Nationalist who are trying to take over our government believe. White men should hold all of the power. Women should support them. End of. 

And there are enough women who are raised with this indoctrination that they believe it to be true as well. In fact if you were to try to buy one of his jerseys right now the women's sizes are all sold out. And they vote for Republicans and try to ban books to save the children from the horrors of learning that not everyone believes what they believe.

And people get really complacent about it because we all know people who identify as Christian who aren't like that. I have friends and family who have their faith but don't fall into the line of women should only strive to be wives and mothers. Family who would go with us to a Pride parade and be lovely to Katie's girlfriend. Hell, who embraced Katie with love when she came out. But not all of them are like that. 

And just like people scream for moderate Muslims to condemn the violence when Al Qaeda attacks or when women are forced to wear burkas or girls are banned from schools, the moderate Christians need to start condemning these radical Christian Nationalists when they call for attacking the government, denying women healthcare, banning books and saying things like obviously men should be in charge. 

When they make speeches at commencements and decry LGBTQ2+ people, women with careers, men not being manly enough and on and on...you need to say something. 

The rumors have started that he had a homosexual relationship in college and then went to conversion therapy.

I don't know if he did or if he didn't, but it makes sense. Not just because his Instagram feed is the weirdest blend of look how good I look in a suit pictures paired with Bible verses I've ever seen but...

Conversion therapy never made anyone less gay. What it can do though is cause the self loathing to become more deeply ingrained. People end up cosplaying straight. Look how macho and masculine I am! I have a giant beard! Or as he said in his speech, don't be afraid to embrace your masculinity. 

And talking about how women should be most excited to be a wife and mother even though his own mother is a highly educated physicist and his sister is a doctor? Well one of the things that happens in a lot of conversion therapy is they are told that it's the mother's fault her boy is gay. 

See, she's usurped the role of the father. Either because she's a single mom, or because she's emasculated him by becoming the breadwinner, or too opinionated, or too competitive. If she were more docile then he would be able to be more manly and their dear boy would have had the right role model and wouldn't have ended up gay.

Mom's fault. 

So if you buy into that then yeah, you're going to refer to the billionaire your teammate is dating as "his girlfriend" while you quote the lyrics to one of her songs. You're going to get all choked up when you talk about how your wife has put her entire life toward making sure you are a success. You're going to tell a room full of women who just finished working their asses off to get their degrees that that is cute and all but just wait until they start their REAL calling of wife and mom. 

Also years of watching the most adamantly anti LGBTQ2+ people end up outed as gay makes this feel really plausible. 

Conversion therapy never made anyone less gay.
You cannot pray the gay away. 

What you can do is admit that if you believe your god doesn't make mistakes and you are the way you are and you believe your god made you then you are not a mistake. That maybe the people using the clobber verses against you are the ones making a mistake. Translation, theology, historical interpretation, picking and choosing which verse to take literally and which ones are metaphorical, or we realize are just based on the culture they lived in (slaves are a-okay for instance), those are the mistakes. Not you. You can keep your faith and also be fully you. 

And as you do, you need to make sure you are speaking out against the radicals who would like to force you to hate yourself just as much as they do. 

Fill My Tank...

I need to fill my tank. 

My idea tank is sort of empty. Or at least I don't want to write about the things that are happening around me right now. 

The news is a constant barrage of what is happening in Palestine, what is happening in Ukraine, what latest nonsense Trump is spouting, the latest Trump trial developments, the idiotic whinings of people who just can't vote for Biden because their lives won't be negatively affected by Trump winning so they have the privilege of pretending to make a difference by not doing a damn thing. 

I don't want to write about any of that. I've written about most of it before. 

So I need something else to fill my tank. 

That's the real challenge with writing as much as I want to. Not just the fiction, but the essays. I could do fewer but better. Like actually research things instead of just posting my ideas. 

Hahahahahaha!!

Oh that's rich!

I don't even like researching for my fiction. I know there are writers out there who love the research part. The people who write period pieces for instance. They love getting into the weeds about when things were invented and when they were in wider use. How people dressed, how they spoke. All of the nitty gritty. 

I am not a fan. 

I like reading interesting things, but only just because they are interesting. I like being able to follow the rabbit down each and every hole and not worry about if it's actually valid for what I'm working on.

So I'm trying to figure out how to fill my tank with something else to write about. Like what could I be doing on a daily basis that I could write about as well. 

The guided meditation app that I've been using has a theme they follow for their sessions. Maybe that? 

Like today was on setting boundaries, so I'm not going to write about that one, but maybe going forward I could use those as jumping off spaces? (The reason I'm not going to write about it is that I happen to be really good at boundaries. No is a complete sentence. How you feel about a situation isn't on me. I don't do guilt. I've written about all of this before.)

But maybe that's what I'll do for a little bit. Take one thing out of my daily routine and expound on it a little. Not always the guided meditation part but something in the day? 

Like today I'm busy pondering how to fill my tank with ideas for daily writing. 

So so far this is a great idea and totally works. 

Cleaning Fumes...

Cleaning the bathrooms this morning and making up limericks about a friend. As you do...

Okay, maybe only as I do. 

And he asked. 

Or at least he asked for something creative to post and the people he contacted are known for song parodies and limericks/word play. So I'm going with that's what he wanted. 

And it's just fun to rhyme with Connecticut. 

A lot of time I get writing inspiration when I'm cleaning. I always call it cleaning fume inspired but it's actually boredom inspired. Or physically busy but mentally unstimulated. It works for a lot of things. Stuck on a problem at work? Go for a walk. Don't take a call while you do it or listen to a podcast or talk to a friend, just go for a walk by yourself and let your mind chew on it while your body is busy. 

While you are doing those physical tasks that you don't really have to think much about let your mind wander and work on whatever it is that has you stuck. Don't constantly fill that space with music or audio books or podcasts or phone calls. 

Get a little bored. It's good for you. 

Of course that's easier said than done. We've all been trained now to look at our phones constantly. Or have multiple tabs open on our computers. Switching back and forth from social media site to news site to books online to that group chat we've got going...

It's hard to get disconnected enough to get bored.

Which is why cleaning works for me. I can't be online and scrubbing a toilet at the same time. I can't check my feeds while I'm cleaning grout. It just doesn't work. It's a forced break. 

I also leave my phone in a different room when I'm reading. I LOVE to read. But I also know that if my phone is next to me I am going to reach for it and see if anyone has liked or commented or posted... the habit is strong. 

It's another thing I'm working on in this new section of the year. Letting myself just sit and be and get a little bored. Letting my mind wander and seeing if I can catch hold of some good writing ideas. I've picked back up the Calm app for a little short section of guided meditation but this is less meditation and more daydreaming. 

I know, all those years of teachers and parents telling you to stop daydreaming and I'm here telling you to do more of it. Get bored. Let your mind wander. See where it goes. Follow at a safe distance so you don't spook any ideas away...

There once was a girl from Albuquerque
Her brain it was wired quite quirky
Sit still and daydream
Was her latest planned scheme
To get clear ideas from murky

Connecticut is just easier to work with!

Look At This Photograph...

 She stared at the photo on the wall.

“Where was this taken?”

Dale gave her a confused look, “In Acapulco.”

“It’s really lovely. I like the balance of the shot. The cliffs are off center enough to make you feel like maybe they aren’t really there.”

“I’m glad you like it. Considering you took it.”

“What? I did not. I’ve never even been to Acapulco.”

“You have. We went a lot back in the 90s. It was one of our favorite vacation spots.”

“No. It’s too dangerous in Mexico. We would never have gone there. They hate Americans and wouldn’t even let us cross the border if we tried.”

“What are you talking about? You can go to Mexico. You can vacation there. They don’t hate Americans.”

She just shook her head and moved to the next picture. “Are you going to try and convince me I took this one too?”

“No, clearly you didn’t take that one. You are in that one. We hired a photographer for these family shots.” Dale gestured at a series of photographs. Each with a different configuration of people in them.

“Whose family?”

“Ours.” He started to point out people, “This is your mother, this is your sister, our son, our daughter-in-law, our grandchildren.”

“Where is the picture of my daughter?”

“Your daughter? Do you mean Becca? Here, your daughter-in-law.”

“No, my daughter. I have a daughter. I know I do.”

Dale shook his head slowly, “We don’t have a daughter. We have a son, and a daughter-in-law.”

She scowled then squinted at the pictures, “And you say I’m in this one?”

“Yes, this is you.”

She looked at her face in the photo, “I’m quite attractive, aren’t I?”

He laughed, “Yes, I think so. Obviously.”

“Why obviously? Attractiveness is subjective. You might not find me attractive.”

“I’m your husband. So clearly, I find you attractive.”

“My husband? Really? Oh, I thought you were doing that condescending we.”

“No, I am your husband, this is our family. Yours and mine.”

“Hunh, I assumed I was a lesbian.”

“What? Why did you assume you were a lesbian?”

She ran her hand over her head, “Well, my hair is all shaved off and my whole wardrobe seems to consist of comfortable clothes.”

“I can assure you that you are not a lesbian. I am your husband. We’ve been married for almost 40 years.”

“And has it been a good marriage?”

“Yes, of course it has.”

“Has it? Really?”

“Yes, I mean of course there have been ups and downs, there is no way to have any sort of long-term relationship that doesn’t have its highs and lows but for the most part the good has outweighed the bad. We’ve been happy.”

“And are we happy now?”

Dale looked up at the ceiling for a moment to collect his thoughts. And to keep the tears that had formed in his eyes from spilling out. “We are struggling right now to find a new balance.”

“Would you like to be happy again?”

“Very much.”

“So why do you stay?”

“No, I mean, I’d like to be happy with you. I’d like to get back to a place where you were happy with me. I think we can get there again. It will just take time.”

“What happened? Why can’t I seem to remember the same things that you do?”

He hated this part. The part when she asked what happened. He didn’t want to explain it again and again. He liked the days when she woke up and mostly remembered who she was and who she had been. The days when she didn’t think the things that had been on the TV in the hospital were real. He really did need to complain again about the nurse who kept the TV set to Fox News while she was in a coma. That stuff did seep in.

“There was an accident. You were in a car crash and were thrown from the vehicle. You were unconscious and had a bad brain bleed when you were found. You spent a while in a medically induced coma. Physically you are mostly recovered now, a little stiffness when it rains. But mentally sometimes you forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Everything. Who you are. Who I am. Everything.”

“Sometimes?”

“Yes, sometimes you wake up and you’re fine. You remember almost everything.”

“Just almost?”

“Yes, the days leading up to the accident and the accident itself seem to be gone, but the doctor said that was normal. That the trauma from an accident that severe sometimes wipes out a block of time around it.”

“So, these are the highs and lows right now? The times I remember and the times I forget?”

“Yes.”

“Which is which?”

“What?”

“Which is the high and which is the low? The times I remember who you are or the times I forget?”

“That’s a strange thing to ask.”

“Maybe. Probably. I guess I don’t know what is weird and what isn’t. I think I’d like to take a nap now. Maybe the me that wakes up will be the one who remembers everything, and you can just forget this conversation happened.”

Dale smiled at her and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry about it. We have all the time in the world for you to remember things. We’ll get there.”

She walked back to her room and closed the door. Sitting down she opened the drawer on her bedside table and pulled out the note she had found there this morning. “DON’T BELIEVE ANYTHING HE SAYS! HE’S LYING TO YOU!” If only she could remember who wrote it.

 

 (Writing prompt: start your story with a character staring at a photograph they don’t remember taking)

Dangerous but Not Afraid...

 A lot of my Albuquerque friends are posting a Top Ten list right now. It's for the top ten most dangerous places to live in the US per 100K people. Albuquerque is number 2, Kalamazoo is number ten. I was a little disappointed Memphis took our top spot and Brent was stunned Kalamazoo was listed and disagreed completely.

We have very different views of our hometowns.

I'm never shocked when Albuquerque shows up on lists of crime or homicide or random violence. It's always been like that. I don't know anyone who has lived there for any length of time that hasn't either had it happen to them or know someone whose car was either broken into or flat out stolen. 

But growing up, even though we all knew it was a dangerous place, I don't really remember being scared about it. We had riots at my high school. I was jumped in middle school. I had friends who lived in the part of town we called the War Zone, but I can only remember like one time being actually afraid that something really bad was going to happen to me that felt like a random bit of violence.

When I got jumped it wasn't unprovoked. It wasn't my fault, I'd never say that, but it was personal. I've written about it before, I rejected a boy, he didn't take it well but being raised properly he would never hit a girl so he got a friend to do it. The time from the blog I linked it was someone trying to scare me but I was never actually in any danger. The school riots were issues other people started that just grew into big fights. But nothing truly scary. The War Zone was just a neighborhood. Where you made sure you locked your car and front door all the time. And kept your head on a swivel. 

And I think that's a lot of it. We were raised to be aware of where we were and to be careful. I don't walk around engrossed in my phone or my music now because I was raised to keep your ears open and your eyes up. I also was taught to be wary of the police, which I didn't realize was odd until the George Floyd murder happened and people were discussing "The Talk" that Black families have with their kids that white ones don't. And I realized that Dad totally gave us that talk. It wasn't until that summer that I wondered if we got the talk because of how dark Dad's skin was. But it was too late to ask him by that point. 

But also, you just knew the police in Albuquerque were corrupt, sure not every cop was just as likely to shake you down or hurt you, some were probably fine. But all of them knew that some weren't so were they fine? I mean the A stands for All for a reason... And even as recently as a few years ago they (APD) released a video that they thought would exonerate them in public opinion for shooting a homeless man, and it was basically a snuff film and did NOT make it any better. So I don't really think the cops there are any better now than they were when I was growing up.

So I grew up knowing that you kept your head on a swivel, you locked your car, you couldn't count on the police to help you out and yet...I don't remember being scared. All of that sounds like we were scared though doesn't it?

But it wasn't scared so much as aware. 

It was a dangerous place to grow up. It's still a dangerous place to live. Though not as bad as Memphis apparently. But like I said in the poem, it was also beautiful and the food is the best you are going to get anywhere. And when I moved away that's what I missed. I missed the sunrise over the mountains and the sunset over the mesa. I missed the way the thunder would roll through the valley during a storm. I missed the times the clouds boiled over the mountain like someone on the East side had started up a fog machine. I miss the colors of the Balloon Fiesta. I missed sitting outside on an October night eating apples from Dixon's. 

I'm sort of nonchalant about the violence. It just is. I can remember talking to someone who had visited Albuquerque and they were so excited when they found out I grew up there. One of the things they loved was the architecture and how so many of the buildings had all of this decorative wrought iron on them. I laughed and said it wasn't decorative, it was functional. It made it harder to break in. You locked yourself up behind the bars at night. 

But still, we weren't scared. We were cautious. We were aware that things could go bad. We knew that there was a good chance most of the people around you were armed with a gun or a knife or a bat or something else. We knew that even the sweetest looking little girl next door could fuck your shit up if you pissed her off. And we just acted accordingly. 

Part of that is why I have zero patience for the pearl clutchers now. The ones who want to criminalize not having a home, or having an addiction. The ones who say they are so scared because someone in a tent is living behind the grocery store. Someone they have never had an interaction with. Someone who has never said a word to them. Just them being there is so scary. 

Give me a fucking break. 

I grew up someplace that is quantifiably dangerous. And I walked through that world just fine.

You'll be okay because someone else is in a rough spot. Trust me. You're okay. 

Stop being afraid of things that aren't even dangerous. 

Start being aware of the world around you and what you need to do to, yes, keep yourself safe, but also maybe make it a safer world for everyone else too. Like fighting for housing first initiatives if the homeless people scare you so much. Like investing in anti- addiction policies if the people who are using drugs are so terrifying to you. You can make it safer for them as well as feeling safer yourself. 

Trust me, I mean I didn't grow up in that hellhole that is Memphis, but we were close. 

Tinker Bell...

I hate Tinker Bell. 

I know, it's a strong statement but I cannot stand her. 

Or I guess I should say how Disney treats her. 

She's the star of the park, lights the castle up, starts the fireworks, there is a fairy garden and a whole series of fairy cartoons with a cast of various fairies living their best spinoff lives. So much merch. She's treated like one of the princesses. 

But she's not a princess, she's a villain. 

Which now you're like, wait a second, your favorite Disney character is a villain. But she knows she's a villain. Disney knows she's a villain. We all know she's a villain. She has a great villain arc. When they tried to make a movie saying, She's not a villain, she's just misunderstood and mistreated I HATED that. She's a villain. And that's okay. Except that it's only been like the last decade where they finally created good merch for her. Because they figured out that some of us like the villains.

If Tink were treated like a villain it would be...well I don't know because they never have. 

Even though she straight up tried to murder Wendy. Clap for yourself you nasty thing.

So a couple weeks ago Dana sent me Tink's villain song. There is an artist who does a lot of these types of songs and Dana knew I'd for sure love Tink's. And I do. It's actually a good song aside from being a more honest take on her. She is a villain. For whatever reason she is one, she is. I also love the one she did for Belle but it sort of brings me back to the point. 

Belle is the hero of her story. Giving her a villain song is a twist. 

Making Tink a villain isn't a twist. She's always been a villain.

But she's cute. So...

After I listened to the song and reading some of the comments there seemed to be a lot of Tink lore I had no clue about so I decided I should read the original Peter Pan book and see if maybe I had her all wrong. 

I did not. The back story they were talking about in the comments was stuff from Disney's Tinker Bell series. Ugh.

The book itself? Oh holy shit... I had to keep reminding myself that it was written in 1904 and so that's why it was a batshit crazy, violent, sexist, racist...well mess.

So by reading the book I reinforced that Tink is still given a pass because she's cute, but she flat out tried to murder Wendy. I also got a better glimpse at how awful every other character was. Peter and Tink being the worst but nobody being decent really. I cannot imagine reading it as a bedtime story to a child. Just so much nope...

Though I do have to apologize to Disney for one thing. I thought they made her a little sexpot. But no, that's canon. He describes her outfit and her figure in the book. So...yeah. Sorry, Disney, you weren't the ones who originally gave her a pass because she's cute, that's always been there, you just didn't change it. 

And you gave her all of that merch. 

Ugh. 

No Weigh...

It's May 10th and I've not stepped on the scale yet this month.

Which was the goal. No Weigh May.

But it's been a lot harder than I had thought it would be. 

I had to move the scale from it's normal spot so I wouldn't just step on it by habit. Then I had to move it even further back into a cubby hole so I wouldn't be tempted to step on it. Even though I would bet you dollars to donuts my weight is in the same 3 pound range it's been in since we came home from Hawaii. But I still feel a little itchy that I don't KNOW.

And it's such a weird thing. I don't need to know my weight to function in the world. I never have to tell someone my weight likes it's a secret code to open a door.

I do know that it can determine my mood negatively or positively for no real reason at all. Which is why I decided to stop doing it in the first place. So I shouldn't even be tempted to step on that scale.

And yet, here we are. 

Funny to think that not doing something is going to be my biggest goal challenge yet. 

But for now, as of May 10th I have not stepped on the scale. I'm hoping by the end of the month it will be like Dry July last year and just have taken hold. No Weigh May back for a repeat June engagement! 

Maybe. 

But maybe not. I might jump right back on June 1st and I'm trying to make sure I'm okay either way. No matter what feels like the right thing to do that will be okay. 

I have years of disordered eating and body image issues that are probably never going to fully resolve. I'm better than I was, but mostly only because I know that I have issues now. Not knowing and just falling into destructive patterns is really easy. Knowing that you have destructive patterns you can either recognize when they start or you can tell other people that you need help for when they start and you aren't noticing. 

But I have reconciled myself to knowing that I'm probably never going to love the way I look. Or not feel like I need to lose just X number of pounds to really be okay. Or that I won't think some foods are good and some are bad. I try. I really do, but it's been ingrained into the very heart of who I am so it's always lurking. 

And that's okay. 

I just need to be aware. I need to recognize when the spiral is about to happen. And I need to be aware enough to throw a monkey wrench into the gears before they really get turning. 

Like No Weigh May. 

Stop the spiral before it takes hold. 

Even if now I feel like I'm a little adrift that's better than being carried away without realizing it. 

Or at least that's what I'm telling myself instead of stepping on the scale. 

Twenty more days to go. 

Brutal...

It is beautiful. 
It is brutal.
Beautiful brutality?

Skies so blue and cloudless they almost hurt to look at. 
Skies so devoid of anything you will burn in the sun
And then freeze in the night. 

Adorable desert animals.
Carrying the plague. 
Look but don't touch, or breathe too deeply.

But you have to breathe deeply.
So high above the sea the air struggles to sustain you
Strengthening your lungs, weakening your heart

We are proud of the fighters
Championship boxers have their own streets
Holm broke that girl's jaw and we cheered

We drive fast on flat roads
And die young on sharp turns
Trying to get away from something we can't name

It's beautiful there.
It's brutal there.
Beautiful brutality we run from and to

The food is wonderful.
Nourishing, filling, delicious.
So hot it will burn your eyes, your nose, your mouth

Tears streaming down you face
Nose running freely. Lips tingling as you cough
It's the best, but not for the weak and it makes us love it more

We are proud of our brutality
We are proud of our beauty
We are beautiful and brutal

How many languages spoken in one day?
You understand and duck to avoid the chancla 
Or to lean in for the besos from su abuela.

Tortillas, frybread, posole, enchiladas
Mariachi, Pow Wows, balloons in the sky
We are here for the fiestas

And the Coronas
And the tequila
And the sirens and accidents and headshakes, what did you expect?

Born and raised in brutality and beauty
I am proud of where I came from
And glad I made it out

Writerly Stuff...

A few weeks ago I had the passing thought that maybe I should actually learn about the craft of writing a little bit more. 

Which is weird right? I mean I write all the time, it seems a little late to be worried about how to do it. 

But I had the thought that I should take it a little more seriously. Maybe even give getting published one more crack. 

Right at the moment that I thought about it someone I follow on Facebook who makes a living writing put out that they were going to do a series of writing workshops. One on fiction writing, one on memoirs, and one on getting published. Of course I thought well this is obviously a sign for me to take these classes. Then it ended up that the classes were going to be on a Sunday that we were already busy so nope, not for me. BUT then he decided to include replays with the purchase of a workshop so I could watch them whenever. Okay, so this is for me. Then when I looked at the price of them I thought, well, maybe not. Maybe I'll look at a different series. BUT then he did a one day "Pay what you want" deal. Which I thought, okay, I'm in. I have a price that I think a 6 hour continuing ed lecture should cost and I will pay that for these. 

So right now (as in RIGHT now) I'm listening to the playback. We are in the Q&A section for the fiction writing part and so I'm only half listening. For the most part people want to say "I've got a book about a sentient polyamorous Octopus who time travels and..." And I have no interest in your book idea and especially not that idea. 

So I'm half listening and checking back on the comments. And thought I should write since I've committed to writing a lot this month and year so instead of fully focusing on a writing workshop I'll do my own writing. 

I'm basically done with the memoir workshop and finishing the fiction one. I'll probably end up doing to publishing one tomorrow. I'm at the level of diminishing returns (clearly) and I think the one that I'm going to get the most new information about is that last one. 

Because it's been okay so far, but I've not picked up anything really new. I mean, find your voice, know what story you want to tell, don't write for anyone but yourself.

I already do that. 

I think I'm an intuitive writer. Like I don't know why or how I write the way I do, I just do. I didn't take creative writing specific classes. I've read a few books about writing but not many. I'm terrible at grammar (as you all know) and truly feel the rules are just barely guidelines. I couldn't tell you what tropes are tropes for the most part, or genre rules, or what have you. 

I just have ideas and scenes that show up in my head and I write them down. 

I have snippets of dialog that show up and I write them down. 

It's just the way it works for me. 

And, again, as you all know, I stopped worrying about being published because it's too much work and makes this fun thing I do a lot less fun. I write to keep my head clear. I really like when you all like what I've written. I also know that the more people who read what I write the more people won't like it, and I'm not sure I want that level of criticism in my life. 

But I'll listen to his publishing section tomorrow and maybe it will change my mind. 

Or it won't. 

But I'm counting it as a win that I thought about doing something like this, this thing popped up, I signed up for it, AND I remembered to do it. 

Even if it took me an extra week because I totally forgot last week. 

And even if so far it's been interesting but not incredibly helpful.

Or maybe that's the helpful part? Just another piece of reinforcement that what I'm doing, the way I'm doing it, that's the right way for me to do it. And nobody else's system, style, advice is actually going to work for me. 

Which is basically life right? 

You have to find your way, your own way. Nobody else's path is your path. 

So maybe that's the helpful part. Just reminding me of things I already know. 

And knowing that I am really not interested in a sentient polyamorous time travelling octopus.