Sunday, December 9, 2018

If we were sharing a bottle of wine: From Poodles to 3-ways



If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I would tell you I can hardly believe the growth the vet removed from my standard poodle Crow's head is benign, because that's not the way shit has been going for me, or for that matter a lot of people, lately. I already mentioned that the vet I took him to gave him the wrong drug. I was utterly prepared for the worst. Apparently the vet didn't get all the margins though, so it's possible there's a shoe with my name on it hovering over my head.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I'd say I'm not really a control freak, but I hate going into the bathroom at the farmer's market where I work and seeing that my favorite of the two stalls is occupied. It reminds me that I am actually sharing a bathroom with a bunch of strangers.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I'd mention I'd read a few essays out of a memoir titled There Are No Grown-ups: A Midlife Coming-of-Age Story by Pamela Druckerman. It's about a woman who's recently turned 40. The book is well written, and I found her essay about giving her husband a three-way with herself and another woman for his birthday interesting -- although the statistics about how many women have sex in their 50's and 60's are fucking brutal --  but I didn't read the entire book. I'm not interested in turning 40. It happened so long ago I could no longer give advice about how to do it.

I am interested in the format though, which is pretty similar to writing a blog. I thought maybe I'd outline a book about turning 60 ..... Then I realized I'd have to be married and living a somewhat interesting life or my advice wouldn't be relevant to pretty much anybody. She's an American who lives in Paris with her husband Simon. (Simon is also the name of my boyfriend, but he's imaginary and her husband is real enough to get a 3-way for his birthday.) I am a 60-year-old (still getting used to that) divorced grandmother who's raising her 7-year-old granddaughter, and whose 27-year-old daughter moved in with her two dogs and two cats four months ago, and who works a variety of part-time jobs to keep the household in heat and dog food and gas for the van where I spend a good chunk of my day every day.

I have not got a handle on how anybody should turn 60. And I certainly don't have time for sex with one person -- which would have to be covered in such a book -- even if suitable horny partners were lined up on my porch patiently waiting to get into my comfy yoga pants, much less a 3-way. Publishers wouldn't be lining up either.

Anyway, if we were sharing a bottle of wine, you'd be turning into a pumpkin, and I'd probably lick the last drop out of my glass and say, "Are you going to drink that?" And you'd say, "No, go ahead." And of course I wouldn't. Of course I wouldn't. I'd just say, "Good night."

Friday, November 30, 2018

Things that make people think of me: Day 30!

During the month of NaBloPoMo friends often send me things that remind them of me. For example, Amy sent me this fascinating factoid about the blue whale's vagina. I already knew how men act when they've got a cold. I was married for 30 years.

Credit: Nerds with Vaginas


Another thoughtful friend, Tricia, sent me this ..... I'm struggling for an adjective .... bear with ..... unusual designer pendant, which can be found on the Yves Saint Lauren website. No, your eyes do not deceive you. It is exactly what it looks like: a brass penis pendant.

I'm not sure if the choice of material is ironic. I've heard of brass balls, but a brass penis is new to me. Also, if I were to wear a disembodied penis around my neck or hanging from my ears I certainly wouldn't be proud to wear one that looks .... well, flaccid is the term that comes to mind. It kind of looks like something might drip out of it.

But it's Yves Saint Laurent, a trend setter if ever there was one. And apparently it's sold out, so darn it! I guess I won't be putting it on my Christmas list. Although at $795 I doubt anybody would wrap up that penis and put it under my tree anyway. Seems like that could be a euphemism for something, but I have no idea what. The "penis dangle earrings" are more affordable at $345.

I looked around the website at some of the other jewelry and purses. I'm pretty sure I've seen that leopard bucket bag at Goodwill and it didn't cost $1500. Who buys this shit? A set of four tires for my van don't cost as much as a little brass dick on a chain costs on that site.

Moving on.

I can thank Jay for sending me some excerpts from novels that I can never unsee. Apparently Literary Review gives out an award for the worst erotic writing each year. Go read the article, if you dare. I'll wait. Don't read it aloud. Someone might hear you and think you're actually ..... just read to yourself. Skim. Don't go too deep.

This year's winners were all men. No surprise there, and I'm not going to explain why. See the end of this post for a hint as to why. I was surprised though to see James Frey (any wonder his name rhymes with "lie"?) and Haruki Murakami listed as winners. I mean, these guys actually make a living writing shit like this? And go on book tours? It's not fair.

Elvira was so inspired by this sentence, she had to illustrate it: In his mind he pictured her neck, her long neck, her swan’s neck, her Alice in Wonderland neck coiling like a serpent, like a serpent, coiling down on him.

Why are you reading this blog post when you can be paying to read these guys? 

I'll end both this post and the month of November with the last thing my daughter Elvira sent me from the easy chair three feet away. It's possible not all men will find it funny. We did though. Thanks for reading this month. I have more to say in the coming days and I'll be posting my Christmas list, so don't go away!




Thursday, November 29, 2018

If we were sipping bourbon: Day 29

Salted maple old fashioned

I thought maybe tonight we'd share a nip of bourbon if you don't mind. A new speakeasy opened up not long ago near me, and they serve a tasty salted maple old fashioned, although I still prefer the original. They'll also make you a virgin Moscow mule in a copper cup if you'd prefer to keep your wits about you. It doesn't matter to me. I just want to celebrate 29 days in a row of posting on this here blog. One more to go after this, and then I'll start breaking promises about how often I'm going to post again.

If we were sipping bourbon at the speakeasy I'd tell you I've learned something from working at the farmer's market, which is one of several part-time jobs I have. And that is that people come in many shapes and sizes and heights and ages, and wear all kinds of styles of clothes,  from jogging shorts to ripped jeans to tight skirts and teetering high heels, and have all kinds of body embellishments .... or not ... and sport a million different hair styles, and it's all just fine. Some days I watch a few thousand people walk past whichever store I'm tending, and while I notice many of them, I don't judge because after the first few hundred, it just doesn't matter at all.

Oh sure, if somebody is wearing something really unusual or they have certain body parts hanging out more than most people I might glance over at Gary, who sells chicken patties, and raise my eyebrows. But most often I find myself feeling grateful that I get to be in a place where we're all so different. I grew up in what was a pretty homogeneous small Iowa town. I desperately wanted to get out of there and meet some people who didn't look like me, so working at the market -- even in a smallish city in the midwest -- is a fulfillment of that dream.

At the market, I talk to so many kinds of people. I love the diversity. One day I helped some young African men practice their English at the dairy where I work sometimes. Milk. Cheese. Eggs. One man has a huge head of dreads, and he wears them in a knitted hat the size of Santa's sack. Coraline and I love to get Moroccan soup from the Greek lady down the aisle. We still can't pronounce "harira" like she does, but we keep trying. Some people are strapped into wheel chairs and don't seem to know where they are, but their caretakers are relieved to be out on a field trip. Others come on a bus together from a group home and they're so happy to be out at the market together, tasting samples, and often holding each others' hands. A nearby charter school will send classes of kids some Thursdays for lunch. They are excited to get some freedom and are so well behaved. Groups of office workers power walk through on their short lunch breaks. People come to the market from all over the country and all over the world. Marshall, the chocolate guy, finally put up a map with push pins so he could keep track.

Marshall's map

I just realized I wanted to make two points. One: I love working in a place where most of the people who come in are happy to be there. It's so different from teaching, because most of the people I've taught over the years didn't really want to be taking a writing class. I felt like I was holding them hostage. But I'm almost always happy when I'm at the market, even if I am on my feet on concrete for upwards of 8 hours that day. One guy might give me a lecture on internet phones (I have notes somewhere). Another will ask if our buffalo (flavored) cheese curds are made from buffalo milk and then laugh at himself when I tell him I've never milked a buffalo. A regular customer will give me a weekly update me on her recent surgery to reconstruct her breasts after her third bout with breast cancer. A new mother who was pregnant the last time I saw her will show off her new baby. An old friend might stop by and sit down behind the counter to visit during my slow spells. I feel privileged to talk with all of them. OK, most of them. Out of thousands of people, a few assholes will always creep in. I don't take that home with me.

My second point is that it really doesn't matter what you look like, especially in a place like the market. Or it has come to not matter to me what people look like, and that has made me less self-conscious about how I look. People are all so different, they start to look alike in a way. They're all just someone to meet and share a minute or a few seconds of friendliness with. It's namaste, and would you like to try a cheese curd or some kettle corn?

I will say -- the bourbon will say -- one thing I've noticed is that most people don't have round butts. Some do, but I'll bet it's fewer than you think. We are a nation of people with flat glutes. It's not just you. 

Also, being thin doesn't seem to make people happier or more friendly. It doesn't make them less. It just doesn't matter. And sometimes the grouchiest looking people have the nicest smiles if I smile at them first and say "hi."

Sometimes working with the public can harden people and make them bitter, but the market tends to do the opposite. I hope you can come see me there some day and we'll share some chocolate milk or some caramel corn, depending on where I'm working that day.

Was one bourbon enough for you? Because I need to get to bed. The more I write the more I have to say, but I'll save some for tomorrow.

How about you? Do you love your job? How does it make you feel about people? 

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Quiet times: Day 27



I'm not going to say life is chaotic around my house, but it can be a challenge to find a few quiet minutes.

For example, the other day I thought I'd lie down on the couch for half an hour or so and read my novel. (Not a novel I wrote, or course, but a novel Meg Wolitzer wrote titled The Wife, which was made into a movie that stars Glenn Close, which could make me hate Meg Wolitzer if she weren't such a clever and engaging writer. Also she probably writes instead of taking naps. sigh.) I digress.

Coraline was engaged in her own rest period upstairs and Elvira was out, so the room was quiet. My eyes started to close -- pretty much like they are now -- and I decided a 15-minute nap was in order. I set my alarm for 15 minutes and settled in, already starting to drift off. I just love a good power nap, don't you?

I was sound asleep for about five minutes before Elvira came home. Her footsteps on the porch woke me up. She banged her way into the house and threw a big plastic bag down on the floor. Of course the 3 dogs got up and started barking and milling around, clicking their toenails. I kept my eyes closed. She went into the kitchen and graciously unloaded the dishwasher, which necessitated some banging around of dishes, pans, and cupboards. Finally she went outside to smoke a cigarette. I dozed back off. She came back in, slammed the door and went upstairs. To her room above the front parlor. Above my fucking head. She walked around for a while. Coraline came in and did a few cartwheels or jumped off the bed a few times. I don't know. I covered my head in case plaster should start falling.

Finally it was quiet up there and the dogs settled down. I drifted .... From the fire station up the street came a firetruck, sirens blasting, racing past on the street half a block away. I listened to it fade into the distance and drifted off again ..... only to startle awake when my text notification went off ... three times. Damn it. I risked a glance at my phone. The texts could wait. I only had 5 minutes left now. I closed my eyes again and fell asleep, desperate now for just a few minutes. I had to get up when my alarm went off to get ready to go out. This was my only chance to satisfy my nap urge.

I was there. I was almost there when my phone started to ring. I picked it up .... a fucking telemarketer. Assholes. I hit dismiss and resolutely closed my eyes again. Twenty seconds later I was slipping into a dream when the notification for a voicemail went off and jolted me awake yet again. It's not bad enough they call, but they leave partial messages that tell me to press 1 to talk to a representative. Dumb assholes. I didn't let that stop me.

I forced myself back to sleep .... for all of 30 seconds and that's when my alarm went off. Naptime was over.

No sleep deprivation here. Nope. No way.

Another example. Tonight after dinner I told Coraline we needed to do our meditation before she went to bed. We try to do it every afternoon or evening because it noticeably helps her focus better at school. We only sit still for 6 minutes, but I'd like to work up to 10. Ten peaceful, empty-minded minutes to sit in silence. We invited Elvira to sit with us, but she decided to meditate on a cigarette outside. Out she went with the dogs.

Coraline got into position criss-cross applesauce in an easy chair. I sat on the couch, took off my slippers and grounded my feet on the floor. We took 3 big deep breaths together and then I pressed start on the timer on my meditation app. Gooooonnnnnnngggggggg. The gong gonged and I tried to clear all thoughts from my head. Once the gong had faded, the only sounds were the clock ticking, some muted traffic noise, and my own tinnitus. Ahhh.

But what is that? A high-pitched tone intruded. High high C, if I wasn't mistaken. Steady and insistent. Surely that wasn't coming from inside my head? No. I'm not supposed to be thinking. Let that thought go. The sound persisted. Faint. Steady. About half a step below a dog whistle.

I heard the side-porch door open. Oh for fuck's sake. Surely she hadn't smoked that cigarette that fast.

"I know you're meditating and I don't want to interrupt," Elvira contradicted, "but can you hear that sound? It sounds like an alarm going off."

Sigh. I turned off the meditation app and slipped into my slippers. "I'll come check."

"I don't think it's the next door neighbors," she said. "They seem to be just watching TV or something." I was outside by now, the pitch much louder now. "I don't think it's the purple house. Theirs didn't sound like that the time I accidentally set it off."

I walked through the falling snow to the back of the house. The sound was urgently annoying, like a super loud malfunctioning florescent light. It was definitely louder in the back, but I still couldn't pinpoint the location ....

And then it just stopped. At first I wasn't sure it had really stopped, but it did. Fine. Whatever it was I wasn't going to figure it out tonight.

Back inside, Coraline and I got back into position, and Elvira settled into another chair. I reset the timer. Goooonnnnngggggg. Eyes closed, I once again attempted to clear my mind. 

Crow, my standard poodle, started lapping his tongue in and out of his mouth, making a loud licking sound. I fucking hate that sound. Notice your annoyance and let that thought go, I thought, although I wasn't supposed to be thinking. He gave a few more laps and then settled down. Good.

Growl. Growl. Kohl. Elvira's border collie. Growling because Crow was in the room. It's constant. The growling whenever we all settle into one room. He hates Crow. Growl growl. I fucking hate that sound. But I tried to see my annoyance in my quiet fucking mind and let it go on by. Clearing my mind. An intense itch erupted next to my nose. I don't think you're supposed to scratch, I thought. You're supposed to just notice it and .... I scratched. I couldn't stand it. Clearing my mind now.

Growl. Growl.The furnace came on, reminding me of the $200 service call I'd paid for earlier in the day. You'd better fucking heat this house, I thought. Ooops. Letting go. Growl. Growl.

Either my mind started to clear or I started to doze off. I'm not sure, but Growl. Growl. I felt a soft plop on the couch next to me and a loud purr started. Gandalf. I sat still. Growl. Growl. I tried so hard to let my thoughts just slip out of my mind. I focused on breathing through my nose. I felt a small paw pushing at my leg. Growl. Growl. Push push. He bumped his head against my wrist. Growl. Growl. Push. Push.

Finally he settled down alongside my leg with his head on my arm. Growl. Growl. His purr was loud, but not distracting. Deep breath. Growl. Purrrrrr. I'm getting there. Growl. Growl. Gandalf suddenly decided he needed to lick his butt. He furiously licked licked licked licked licked. Growl. Growl. Lick. Lick.

Will that fucking furnace never shut off, I thought as a hot flash started burning its way out of me and my entire body flushed with a layer of sweat. I want to whip my scarf off so at least my neck will cool off, but I already scratched my nose so NO. Growl. Growl. Oh. My. God. I'm noticing that my body feels like it's engulfed in flames under my skin and I'm letting that thought go. Growl. Growl. Breathing. Emptying my mind. In. Out. Growl. Growl. In. Out.

Goooonnnnnnggggggg. 

Meditation over. Growl .... Growl. Sigh.

Monday, November 26, 2018

Tears for heroes: Day 26



Every day my Facebook feed is filled with shit that makes me get all the uncomfortable feels: rage, incredulity, fear, terror, shock, horror. And that's just the orange dog fart's tweets.

In my real life I've got plenty of things to worry about. For example I was researching security systems tonight and realized my downstairs furnace wasn't running and the front parlor was cold. Sigh. I got the furnace to come on and it blew cold air and then shut off. I went downstairs and smelled the faint odor of gas, so I called a local 24-hour furnace business. The woman who took my information said the guy would call me. It's been almost two hours. Fuck him. I've got another furnace upstairs. I'll get it fixed tomorrow by someone else. And fuck all the asshole men who are forcing me to get a security system. I could use that money for so many other things especially with the winter holidays coming up. See? Just tonight. Plenty to worry about.

And don't even get me started on grief. I want to tell my mom so many things that are happening right now, just to know she's on my side and that she's as upset as I am. She wasn't such a good listener all the time, but she did when it was important and she really needs to know some of this stuff. I miss her.

So in order to balance out the political, the worries, and the grief, I've been clinging to the stories about small acts of kindness, stories about people who are in-the-moment heroes, that, oddly enough, are the most likely to make me tear up or even cry. People who see a need and give because they can. Hero stories have always made me cry like the silly sap I am. Remember Billy Jack? There's a lake in southwest Iowa that was made just from my Billy Jack tears. Garbage truck driver who rescues an elderly woman from a fire and hauls her out of there in his truck. Oh, hell yes. Boy Scout helping an old woman across the street? Hand me a tissue, Granny.

I'm posting as many of these stories on my Facebook as I can just to remind myself and my friends who we really are. Who we really want to be. So tonight, because I'm worn out and 7:00 is going to be here in < 5 hours, I will simply share this story, which I will admit made me tear up. And I will ask you to please share stories like this too, because even though they make me cry, it's good crying, healing crying, hope crying. And we need all the hope we can get right now.




Sunday, November 25, 2018

If we were sipping a glass of wine: Day 25


If we were sipping a glass of wine together I would tell you this is my favorite quotation from a movie: "You gotta be brave before you can be good," from Hearts Beat Loud. If you haven't watched it yet, I highly recommend it. It's a story that will leave you feeling good. And don't you need that after a day of scrolling Facebook and reading rude, stupid, incendiary texts shit out of a disgusting orange goat fart? Watching a movie about good people heals hope. You can watch it free on Kanopy if your library offers it.



If we were sipping a glass of wine together I would tell you I have discovered the most delicious way to eat leftover turkey .... OK, I didn't discover it. My friend Chicken Grrrrl told me how she does it. Whatever. She said she mixes leftover cranberry/orange relish with mayonnaise and spreads it on good white bread. Then she adds leftover turkey and a leaf of crisp lettuce. She said it's delicious.

I don't eat much bread, so I made mine in a big lettuce leaf. I squirted on some mayo, spread cranberry/orange relish over that, then piled on some leftover turkey. It's divine. Much better than it should be. Maybe even better than the original turkey dinner. If I were making these for company, I'd add some chopped toasted pecans, but it's highly unlikely I'm going to share. Try it either way. You'll feel positively gourmet.

If we were sipping a glass of wine together I would tell you Coraline wants to take karate. She's 7 and what she really wants is someone to teach her how to protect herself and how to take somebody who's bigger than she is down. She's not worried yet about boys or men trying to force themselves on her. Thank you, Jesus. But she does have a good friend, a sweet boy, who is a year older than her, and who is bigger and stronger. He plays a lot of sports. And they like to wrestle. She wants to learn some moves so she can compete  better in their wrestling matches. It's not that he's too rough nor is he mean or aggressive. He's just physically stronger and used to being tackled in football.

I'm guiding her toward jujitsu. Might as well get a start on self defense. Every woman needs it, much as that makes me want to throw up my glass of wine. I wish I'd taken my daughter to some kind of martial arts class. Lesson learned.

If we were sipping a glass of wine together I would long ago have offered you some Lays Classic potato chips or some lime tortilla chips or some peanut butter-filled pretzels. I don't know about you, but I like some salt with my wine. And that's why I've decided I have to join Weight Watchers.

I hate to admit this here where you only see my words, but I am fat, and now it's not all in my head, damn it. Elvira says I'm not really fat, but she's wrong this time. Sweet, but wrong. I feel like I'm wearing a fat suit, and it gets in my way. And the fatter I get, the less I want to move around like I used to. I used to put 100 miles or more on my bike every week. Now it just sits there and I haven't replaced riding with anything other than eating more chocolate and drinking more wine. I'm disgusted with myself.

A few of my friends have done Weight Watchers and it worked. So I'm going to do it too. I may wait until after the first of the year. Or I may be repulsed enough by myself to start during the food-filled winter holiday season. Ugh. If only there were a magic pill. Or a magic glass of wine.

I suppose we'll have to drink tea next time.

If we were sipping a glass of wine together I'd tell you Miss Serendipity visited today. As I was getting ready for the day, blow drying my hair and putting on mascara and such, I was thinking about Facebook and how much of my precious time it takes up. How I'm like a rat in a maze trying to find the lever that will give me a like or a heart or JACKPOT! a comment. And how I need to get off it for a while and get back to doing some of the things I used to do. This isn't the first time I've had this come-to-Jesus meeting with myself, and it was probably triggered by an artist friend who often takes breaks from Facebook -- even disables her account [shudder] -- so she can focus on her art and on her inner life. Whatever the reason, I knew I had to do something about this addiction.

And then I went to the church up the street from us, and the minister's sermon was about paying attention. And about how we don't pay attention because we're paying attention to our screens. And how Facebook is not a replacement for real, FTF interactions with other people. It's like she was talking right to me, because I'm pretty sure I'm married to Facebook and I never even got the ring.

I felt a text vibrate my phone in my back pocket during the sermon and it was all I could do not to grab my phone and immediately open it. I waited until the offering to surreptitiously glance. I didn't answer it until I got home though, so I think I get half a point.

I wish I could do both. I wish I could cruise Facebook for hours every day and still play my guitar and make art and write the fucking book nobody will buy already. But I can't. Not only that though, I'm not paying attention and it's affecting my attention span, which is almost nonexistent these days.

So I'm going to make a list of the things I'd rather be doing than Facebook, and then, once this month of NaBloPoMo is up, I'm going to stop carrying my phone around and checking Facebook every spare minute of my day. And just for good measure, I'm going to delete solitaire from my Kindle. I'm going to pay attention in December. It's possible nobody will pay attention to me because they'll all be on Facebook or Snapchat, but I'm going to give it my best try.

If we were slugging down the dregs of a bottle of wine, I'd have to tell you goodnight now and either push you out the door or make up the couch so you could sleep here. Then I'd let the dogs out, start the dishwasher, check the locks, tuck you in if you're still here, and head on up to bed. 

Good night. Sleep tight. We don't joke about bedbugs here in the 'hood. 



Saturday, November 24, 2018

Bail is set at nope: Day 24



I have to write about something that's weighing heavily on my head tonight, and that is the number of women in this country who are murdered by current or past husbands or boyfriends. I wasn't able to find statistics that are very current, but what I could find puts the number at about an average of three a day. Three a day. Three. Women. Every single day of the year. (Of course that's not how averages work, but bear with.) Before they were murdered, most of those women were not murder victims, but victims of domestic abuse.

The statistics for women being physically abused by an intimate partner are even grimmer. One in three women will experience some form of physical abuse, and for one in four women the violence will be severe at some point in their our lifetimes. Yet most don't get medical treatment, most often because they are ashamed, but also because they can't afford it. 

If you follow the link in the paragraph above I'm sure you will come away depressed and angry like I did. Not that I'm a stranger to the statistics. I have a degree in social work, and I used to work as a counselor in a women's resource center that was the umbrella organization for the battered women's shelter. So I have some professional experience in addition to the experience of living all these decades in a woman's body. I've seen what it looks like. I've seen what it does to women and children. I've seen monsters and hid inside locked doors while they pounded to get in and satisfy their bottomless rage.

The rage of some men -- of so many men -- is terrifying, from the president on down.

I have so much I could say about men and their narcissistic anger and the ways they visit it upon women and children. I've got my own rage about their rage .... without the power that comes with size, strength and social privilege. I could write for days and days about the rage of men. But I won't.

I will just say this. I may not have much personal power, but I can promise you this, my patient readers: If my son ever touched my daughter-in-law or any other woman with violent intent, it had better be to save his own life. If he did it because he couldn't control his  anger though, he would no longer be welcome to be my son in this lifetime. He would not be allowed on my island.

(Disclaimer: I am not talking about my actual son, Drake, right now. Anyone who knows him will agree that unprovoked violence is antithetical to his character. He is a protector, not a harmer.)

You wouldn't have to know me for very long to know my kids and my grandkids are the stars of my life. I would do almost anything for them, and I do. It would be like ripping my heart out to turn my back on any of them. But I would do what I had to do to keep everybody safe if my son proved to be an abusive asshole.

One thing in particular I would not do is bail my son out of jail after he was physical violent toward a woman (or even a man unless he was protecting himself). I would let him rot there for a couple of reasons. First, actions have consequences. Why should the victim have to live with the consequences of an abuser's actions if he doesn't? Let the consequences be harsh enough that he thinks twice before he does it again.

And second, I would fear for the safety of not only his partner when he got out of jail, but of the people around her -- children, friends, anybody who supports her. And I would not ever feel safe around him myself. A man who is violent toward his wife or girlfriend is likely to take his anger out on anyone, including his mother. Or his child. A man who is violent toward the woman he claims to love is a man who is out of control. It would be better to cut him out of my life than to live in fear of him.

Abusers are good liars. They make all kinds of excuses for their behavior: work stress, money stress, depression, too much to drink, she pissed him off, she said something that hurt his feelings blah blah fucking blah. I'm not the kind of mother who would accept even my son's self-proclaimed victimhood. If I did, it might as well be my fists throwing the punches, because I'm no better than he is.

I will admit to some vague-blogging in this post based on recent personal experiences, but I've also seen several posts cross my Facebook feed about women who have been killed by their spouses or exes recently. It becomes news when the man is a judge or when the crime is particularly gruesome. Most of those three women who die at the hands of men who love them die unknown to us. We don't hear their stories, because their stories aren't that uncommon. I have to wonder how many times people made excuses for the abuser or believed his lies before he actually killed a woman. How many times our court system let him out with barely a slap on the hand. How many times a mother or father bailed him out when he could have been locked away and the rest of us safe from his rage. Most of them?

I have to mention that resources are available for women who are in a violent relationship. If my son ever put a woman in a situation where she needed those resources, I'd be focused on getting her the help she needs long before I'd be raising bail money for an abusive son. I certainly wouldn't fucking set him loose on the world to vent his rage again.

I can safely say I will never have to make that decision, and for that I'm grateful. But that's not true of all parents.  How about you? Would you rush to post bail if your son went to jail for a violent crime? Or would you let consequences take their course? Would you be able to overlook the abuse or would you have to cut out the cancer, like I would?

I leave you with this song, which isn't everybody's bowl of black-eyed peas. (Don't you love ironic lyrics?) Then again, nobody asked Earl to be an abusive asshole.



Friday, November 23, 2018

In which I won't be getting a cat: Day 23

This is the cat I won't be getting.
(Photo credit: stolen from Catster)

Elvira: What are you going to name the cat you get after I move out?
Me: I'm not going to get a cat.
Elvira: Yes, you will. You'll get a fancy Maine coon or something like that, and you'll name it some obnoxious name like Hemingway.
Me: I wouldn't get a Main coon. They probably shed too much. I've always loved the American shorthair. That's the only kind I would want .... not that I'm getting one. Also I'm not a big Papa Hemingway fan. I'd probably name it Atwood. Atwood is a good name for a cat. Or Margaret. Either one would work.
Elvira: Margaret is a great name for a cat. You should name the cat you will definitely get Margaret. Oh wait though! I know! I know! You can name it Margaret Catwood. It's perfect.
Me: Clever girl! That is the best name for my cat ever. Margaret Catwood it is. I'm not getting a cat, but if I were to get a cat, her name would absolutely be Margaret Catwood.

I do not intend to get a cat, sweet readers, but if I did, I would not do stupid shit like this to Margaret Catwood.



And I would not make jokes about grabbing her by the short hairs either. She would be dignified and I would respect that. And in return, she would make sure her hairs did not fall out on my furniture and clothes. Also she would scoop her own litter. And she would know in advance not to get on my counters. Is it becoming more clear why I should not get a cat?

Thursday, November 22, 2018

Happy Thanksgiving! Day 22

I hope you enjoyed a wonderful Thanksgiving. TG is my favorite holiday -- no gifts to buy, lots of delicious food, leftovers, family and friends around Grandma Bolton's round oak table with all 5 leaves in. The table was a wedding present when she and Grandpa got married. I ate countless family dinners around that table when I was growing up, and today we christened it in my home.

My day was chaotic at times, and we ate late like every year, but I do love cooking for people and the turkey was moist, so it was also joyful and loving and filled with gratitude. In other words it ran the gamut from starting a fire in the oven when I slightly over-toasted the marshmallows on the sweet potato casserole ....


Flavors of apple and cinnamon with a note of campfire.


... to watching my one-year-old grandson Danger lick the beaters after I whipped the cream ....


Adorbs!

.... to funny messages from Elvira that left us gasping for air around our full tummies.


So glad this wasn't me. 

I still have some cleaning up to do, but that will have to wait until tomorrow, probably spilling over to the next day too. I could use a day off, a day with nothing to do but read a book, take a nap, and walk the dogs. I crave a day like that, but I don't see that in the near future.

Nevertheless, I'm thankful for all my many blessings, but most of all for family and friends who keep my heart warm and a smile on my face, and for all those leftovers.


Happy Thanksgiving,




Tuesday, November 20, 2018

Here, kitty, kitty: Day 20

Wednesday Caddams, my new muse. Look out, Dolores.

I've never been a cat person. I might be a dog person, but not in the way a lot of people are dog persons. I don't fawn over every dog I see. In fact, although I like dogs, I prefer not to touch them all that much; a couple of pats is enough for me usually. And I hate being licked, jumped on, or stared at when I'm eating. A combination of the three will probably ensure I won't be coming back. I'm kind of a bitch, but dogs get that. Half of them are bitches too.

In spite of my boundaries around dogs, I enjoy living with one. One dog who has to be a standard poodle. One dog who is intelligent, protective, stays off the furniture, and doesn't shed. And who doesn't do those those things I listed above -- the licking, etc. A dog who lives with me, not the other way around. Don't hate.

Cats are a different matter. I like them, and they often like me. In fact, it's usually the cats who don't like anybody else who like me. I guess my reputation as a bitch precedes me. I will pet cats, even the standoffish ones, if they come to me. I will even let them get on my lap, although I surreptitiously pick the hairs off. But I don't want one living in my house. Or so I thought.

I have a lot of reasons for not wanting a cat. Litter boxes. Hair. Jumping on counters. Their reputations for being untrainable. Toxoplasmosis. Irrational meowing. Getting on the furniture. Litter boxes.

And yet since the middle of August I've had two cats living in my house, and I find I don't mind them so much. In fact, most nights as I write into the wee hours, this little guy, Gandalf, is purring beside me, like he is now. 




And the other day, a rare day when I found time to write while the sun was up, Wednesday Caddams, my new muse, sat on my desk and inspired me with her stony silence. Later tonight, she'll probably hop up on my bed and sleep as far from me as possible. It suits us both. (Gandalf is not allowed to sleep with me, because he wants to snuggle and I don't snuggle, but he is allowed to take a nap with me sometimes.)

It's disconcerting to me that I like don't mind these cats. Maybe it's because scooping the litter is not my job. Maybe it's because they're not permanent residents. Maybe it's because they're pretty good cats and they rarely get up on the counters. I'm not sure why they aren't driving me crazy.

The thing that has me worried though is something I did yesterday. I sent my daughter Elvira, she who brought these cats into my house, a funny cat video.




People! I do not send funny cat videos! I do not post funny cat videos on my Facebook! I don't even hit like on funny cat videos! And yet I can't deny that I crossed a personal boundary and shared -- although only with Elvira -- a funny cat video. The conversation following defines why this frightens me.

Elvira: Oh my god.
Me: I couldn't stop watching it.
Elvira: I watched it three times.
Me: I laugh every time. Oh shit. I'm a person who laughs at cat videos now. Fuck me.
Elvira: LOL. Everyone does that. It's why the internet was invented.
Me: Yeah, to make us stupider.
Elvira: Funny cats distract from the fall of capitalism.
Me: Eat the rich.
Elvira: Word.

Later she sent me this:



I responded with a laughing cat GIF  because ... and this is the terrifying part .... that's exactly what Gandalf does when I'm taking a nap! Exactly. And I thought it was funny that he might do that if I D.I.E.

You know that people can go crazy from parasites that cats carry around with them, right? Go ahead. Click the link. I'll wait.

What is crazier than posting funny cat videos and sleeping with a cat on your hip? I'm afraid it's already too late for me. I've already shared one cat video in a private message. What's to stop me from sharing one on my Facebook page now? And then sharing more and more?

And then what's to stop me from sliding down that slippery slope and getting a feline companion of my own once these cats move out? That's how they get you! They plant an organism in your brain that makes you crazy and then you take care of them and think all their insane antics are simply adorable.

This is serious! The next step is one we're all familiar with: the crazy cat lady. Next thing I know I'll be putting dozens of cans of cat food on my porch for all the feral cats and raccoons and skunks and my house will smell like cat pee and I'll have cat hair all over my clothes and then I'll change my will and leave all my money to the cats ...... I could literally scream!

This is a disaster. I don't know what I'm going to do ..... Wait! Gandalf and Wednesday suggested I watch this. They said it would make me feel better. 



Aww. Such funny kitties. Maybe we have room for one more ....


Monday, November 19, 2018

If we were having a glass of wine: Day 19


Some bloggers write posts that start "If we were having coffee ... ." I rarely drink caffeine though, and I write during a time when I might be drinking a glass of wine and most people are sleeping, so I write "If we were having a glass of wine ..." posts. Let's sit by the fire and talk.



If we were having a glass of wine,I would tell you I don't think Kroger employees should talk to customers while the customers are peeing. Some people have shy bladders that clam up midstream when a stranger talks from outside the stall about how busy the store has been that day. Not that I have a silly shy bladder, of course. Just some people do.

If we were having a glass of wine I'd tell you I'm a little worried about my pumpkin pies this year. I started to cook up a big orange Cinderella pumpkin, but I realized my refrigerator is too full of turkey dinner stuff to store a couple of gallons of pumpkin puree. So I grabbed a white pumpkin that was about the right size and cut it in half. Instead of the bright orange flesh I expected, it was white inside too. So I think my pumpkin pies are going to look pretty anemic this year. I wonder if anybody will even eat the my pale ghostly pies. Oh who gives a flying fuck. I don't really like to share anyway.

If we were having a third glass of wine I would fill you in on the status of butt plug plugging. You would ask me to fill you in, because apparently butt plugs are fascinating enough that numerous people have asked me about them as if I were an expert, which I'm not. I would share my disappointment that Jennifer from Plug Joy didn't respond to my email in which I shared my butt plug post to let her know I'd fulfilled my end of a bargain we didn't exactly shake hands on. I would have to say I think it's pretty fucking short-sighted to ignore my attempt at paid advertising when I not only wrote that post, I also inspired women at my church who have never plugged their butts to look into the practice. For all I know, brown paper packages have already landed on their doorsteps. Surely that was worth even more than $20.

And just to be clear, I would probably have to assuage your curiosity and admit that I neither vajazzle nor do I buttazzle. In fact, I wear very little jewelry, especially in my bottom area, which I do not consider my most attractive feature, even should I plug a fake pink diamond in back there. I certainly don't judge others who like a more decorative anal area. You do you. And if you do do you, and since we're on our third glass of wine, I'd have to ask if you can sit down with that thing in and does it make you have to poop. Moving on.

If we were having a glass of wine I would tell you my 100-pound standard poodle Crow Cocker had to have a growth that looked like a brownish-red balloon taken off his forehead. When I arrived at 5:00 after a crazy busy Friday, I hoped I could make Coraline's performance at her school's harvest feast, even though I knew I'd miss the dinner. It started at 5:30, and the drive back to the city would take 45 minutes and then I'd have to drive another 20 to the place where the dinner was held.

He wasn't ready. When the vet finally called me back it was to confess that she'd given him the wrong drug when she tried to put him under. It was a drug that usually wasn't given that way, straight into the bloodstream. She had to call doggy poison control, which cost $60. She generously said I wouldn't have to pay for that. They recommended she push IV fluids through him for two hours to clear out the unwanted drug. Two fucking hours.

So I sat on an old church pew and read a magazine for 2 1/2 hours while an exceedingly obnoxious woman tried to wake up her miniature Airedale called Willy by clap clapping her hands over and over and over again and talking baby talk in a high-pitched voice. Clap clap "Wake up, Willy." Clap clap "Do you hear the kitties, Willy? The kitties are meowing, Willy." Clap clap Clap clap Clap clap "Is your tail wagging? Is your widdle widdle tail starting to shake, Willy?" Clap clap Clap clap "See the kitty, Willy? Is the kitty going to get into that chocolate, Willy?" Clap clap Clap clap Clap fucking clap I'll bet Willy wished he could get a perpetual morphine drip. I considered choking her out with Crow's leash, but I didn't want to do anything that would prolong my wait.

Finally he got to leave, but only after I had paid $170 for my little jar of tumor. And entirely missed the school dinner.

If we were on our fourth glass of wine I'd confess that in spite of my jokes about dating and how it's not something I plan to waste my time doing, I sometimes miss sharing my life with another responsible adult. I feel like I'm slipping further and further behind and it would be nice  -- maybe -- to have someone else around to help fix the things that need fixing in an old house and to do the dishes after I cook and to help put clean sheets on the bed and to go on vacation with and ... well, it doesn't bear imagining, because I really don't see myself sharing my life with a romantic partner ever again. But there are times when I miss sharing responsibilities with another grown up. I would tell you that, but we'd both know my dismal track record and agree I'm better off alone.

By now I'd be falling asleep on the couch and the Netflix fireplace would have burned down four times, and you'd be thinking I'd done all the talking .... again. Sorry. That's what the comments are for. 

What would you tell me if we were having a glass of wine together? It's just us here, and I'm already half asleep. I won't remember in the morning.


Sunday, November 18, 2018

What's in a name? Day 18



Tonight one of the NaBloPoMo prompts caught my attention: "What are you called?" It grabbed me because I've been called a lot of names I've been thinking about changing my name. I've always wanted to change my name, and when I say always I mean as soon as I learned to talk I tried to change my name.

When my mom named me she shortened both her first and last names instead of giving me my own unique name. Certainly I'm glad for my middle name, Jo, which was not only my mom's but my grandmother's too. My daughter's middle name is Jo ( which is also her paternal grandmother's name) and she gave Coraline the longer, original middle name, Josephine. I digress .....

I disliked my first name so much that once I could talk I wouldn't let my family use it. I insisted my name was JoJo. They changed it to Jody, and I accepted that compromise. When I went to school though, the teacher called me by my first name, and so did everybody else. I hated it, but I wasn't given a choice. I had to answer to it. My immediate family continued to call me by my chosen nickname. Nobody else did.

And so I've gone through life with a name I don't associate with me. In my mind, I don't call myself by that name. I don't have a name for myself at all in my own mind other than "you." Which we all know is a pronoun, not a name. My name doesn't feel comfortable when I say it, when I introduce myself to people. It's like a formality when I sign it. There's nothing inherently wrong with my name. It's perfectly fine for other people. It's not my name though. 

I wonder what it would be like to have a name that I could settle into like a big comfy chair. One that reflected who I am on the inside and the outside. One reason I didn't change the one my mom gave me when I was younger is because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. That's not something I have to worry about now.

I also think about changing my last name, which is still my ex-husband's name. I've had it way longer than either of my two maiden names. I kept it when I got divorced because it was also my kids' name. But I'm getting tired of it. I want my own last name too.

I wish I'd done it years ago. Something I hate is that my kids seem to only relate to that side of the family because that's their name, my name. The identify with that name, but not with any names on my side. It's like I didn't offer up any genetic material at all.

So I'm thinking about going back to my original maiden name, my mom's maiden name. She wasn't married when I was born, so I shared her last name, my maternal grandfather's name until my mom married my stepdad and he adopted me. Then I was given his last name.

I don't think about taking that name back. Once again, it's a fine last name, but I never felt like it was my last name.

I have a chronic case of name dysphoria. I feel more comfortable calling myself Reticula than I do my own name.

So I think a lot about changing both my first and my last names .... and then I think what a hassle it would be to change my name in every place my name is known and kept. Driver's license. Military ID. Social Security. Bank. Utilities. Library. Amazon. Facebook.

And I think about asking people who've known me for decades to call me by a different name. Would they even remember it's me when my new name comes up on Facebook? Wouldn't it be weird at this stage of my life to change my name? Like I was just trying to get attention -- one of the cardinal sins of my childhood. Maybe I'm just being silly. Would it matter enough to make it worth the work it would take?

What if changing my names didn't cure my name dysphoria? And don't I have more important things to worry about?

Hell, yes, I do. I should be cooking a pumpkin or writing a novel. I don't even know why I wrote a boring blog post about it. If it weren't 1:00 am, I'd delete this and write about something interesting like vaginas or cookies or anything but why I want to change my name, except I'm too lazy and self conscious to do it.

I don't know if anybody made it to the end of this old thing, but if you did and you have any experience about names to share, I'd appreciate your input. Otherwise, you can call me Al.