Day 30: The Finish Line

Day 30. This is the last post for NaBloPoMo 2019. A big hug of gratitude to all of you who read my rants and rambles this month. I've got a little something extra for those of you who managed to read every post and I think you know what I mean. Seriously, I have no reason to write here if you all don't show up and engage with me. I mean .... I am nothing without you! So, really. Thank you.

I always intend to continue writing at least a couple of times a week after NaBloPoMo. I go into December with the same intention this year, because one of these years I will succeed. If you run across topics you think I should write about, please send them on. You can contact me by email or on my Facebook page. You have liked my Reticulated Writer Facebook page, right? Or you can just pop a comment under this post. Lots of ways to find me.

At a party last night, I did receive a complaint that I didn't write about vaginas often enough. I know, right? It's uncharacteristic. I guess it's the sign of our times that I ended up ranting more than I usually do. I'll do my best to get back into vaginas.

Oh, you know what I mean!

I leave you with this poem by Danusha Laméris simply because it's beautiful and I love it.



Small Kindnesses

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

Day 29: Gratitude: Coraline

Coraline with Margaret Catwood
Photo credit: Reticulated Writer

I was trying to decide what to write about tonight on this next-to-last night of NaBloPoMo, and I realized I hadn't written a gratitude post yet this month. I should write at least one gratitude post in the Thanksgiving month, because I have so much to be grateful for. And then I realized some of you reading here this month might not know my 8-year-old granddaughter Coraline and me in real life, so I'm going to write about her.

Coraline has lived here with me in our big 145-year-old Queen Anne Victorian house for over four years. I can hear some of you thinking, Wait just a dang minute there, Reticula. You're raising yet another generation now, in your golden years, and you're talking about gratitude? I don't get it!

I'll tell you what. A lot of people don't get it -- unless they know us. Even then, I've heard," She's so lucky to have you," and "You're such an angel," and "How do you keep up?" and other variations on the theme.

Here's how I answer: I'm the lucky one. A little background: I'm the oldest of five kids and I have two of my own. I've been raising or helping to raise kids for a lot of years. But I still consider myself lucky, because if I am going to raise another child at my age, I am raising the perfect child. Not that she's perfect. Neither of us are. But she's the perfect child for me. I know other grandparents who are raising their grandchildren and from my perspective, as much as they love their grandchildren, they're not as lucky. They've got a lot of problems we don't have. My daughter's only unhealthy habit during her pregnancy was smoking. Same while she breastfed Coraline for a year and a half. She was careful. I didn't have to deal with fetal alcohol syndrome or a baby born addicted to drugs or any of the many other issues custodial grandparents deal with. We do have some issues that led to Coraline living here -- obviously. But Coraline is bright, healthy, empathetic, out-going, confident, so compassionate ... I could go on, but you get the idea. I am lucky and I am grateful. And I know many of you who know us in real life will give me a Blessed Be or an Amen.

I will admit I don't get to do some of the things I did the few years I was single and living alone. Or I don't get to do those things as often. Shrug. I'm doing other things. I'm a Girl Scout leader again. We go camping with my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. We go to women's basketball games at my alma mater. Now that she's learned to ride her bike, we can do that together, and we'll ride farther and faster as she gets older. We go on fun day trips and we have groups of friends we socialize with. We go to church together. Oh, my god. You should see her dance in church. I'm not the only one who loves this child and her amazing spirit. She's taking piano lessons, and we're going to play a duet for her Christmas recital. Instead of making me feel old trying to keep up, raising Coraline keeps me younger, I think.

Are there some drawbacks? Are you a parent or have you been? Are there ever not trade-offs when you're raising kids? I confess I feel guilty that I can't spend as much time with my grandson as I think I would otherwise. On the other hand, Coraline is so good with him and he adores her. I'm not a morning person, so that 7:15 alarm doesn't excite me every morning. Neither does the drive to the school twice a day, although we have a carpool this year, so that helps. I miss doing some things with my friends when I don't have childcare, but I also do some things I wouldn't otherwise have done, so I don't dwell. There are other things I know I'm missing out on, but nobody gets a guarantee that they'll do everything in life they want to do. And I have to say, Coraline is a good excuse not to date. I'm sure that's not the only bad decision she saves me from making.

So, yes, my life took a turn I didn't expect. Doesn't every life? And I'm grateful for every day I get to be in Coraline's life and that she is in mine. Have I mentioned she loves to mop (for now) and begs to be the one to mop the kitchen floor? See? Wouldn't you be grateful too?

I'll end with this Coralineism from earlier today.

Coraline: What do you think happens to toys when they die?

Me: I'm not sure I understand the question.

Coraline: If toys are secretly alive, if a toy dies then the kid won't know it.

Me: I never thought about that.

Coraline: Yeah, and then the kid will keep playing with the toy and all the other toys will have to watch him play with a toy corpse.

Me: I guess it's a good thing toys aren't secretly alive. I don't know how we'd solve that dilemma.

Coraline: Well, we don't really know though, do we?

Me: No, and now you're giving me the creeps. Are you ready for another pancake?

Day 28: Throwback Thursday: What Febreze Scent Is Your Vagina

Happy Thanksgiving! Are you stuffed? Because I am stuffed. And tired. The past few days I did a lot of cleaning and a lot of cooking and right before my favorite holiday I got a nasty shock that I'll have to deal with whether I want to or not. If you're the praying type, our little family could use some intervention of the supernatural type. No floods or anything like that, please. If you're a ninja Amazon warrior, hit me back channel and let's make a plan. This Mama Bear never hibernates, although I do need some sleep tonight.

So anyway, it's been a long week and I'm so glad it's over .... Wait? What? It's not over yet? Damn it. That's a very good reason for me to share a post from six years ago that I still find entertaining instead of staying up another 2-3 hours writing, editing, nodding off and banging my head on the keyboard. I've already talked about vaginas and Febreze this month. This post ties them together in a neat fragrant package.


From March 6, 2013

Recently I've started holding what I call writer's bootcamps at my house. I open my house to a group of women writers, take their cell phones, and shame encourage them to put their asses in a chair and write for 4 hours with 5 minute breaks every hour. We take a long break for lunch, and then wrap up with a sharing session.

Sounds so simple, but it's rather powerful. Some amazing work comes out of these bootcamps.

At last week's bootcamp .... for reasons I simply don't understand .... the topic of vaginas came up. I offer you a synopsis.

KS: Vaginas do not smell like fish. Vaginas don't even smell like nice, fresh trout. (This will make no sense if you haven't read the nice, fresh trout post.)
Reticula: Hey, that's what I said, but he was adamant. The guy seemed to know his vagina.
KS: No way. As the lone lesbian in the room, and the person with by far the most experience with vaginas, I'm telling you no vagina smells like fish.
Reticula: My vagina smells like rain. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
KK: OK, then mine smells like mountain air.
KS: Sounds like a Febreze scent. Hey, if your vagina was a Febreze scent, what would it be?
R: Mine would be mango .... no, chili .... no, mango. My vagina smells like mango Febreze.
Reticula: I'm sticking with rain. I'm not kidding: my vagina smells like rain.
Anonymous: How about double rainbow? Maybe your vagina smells like double rainbow Febreze.
Reticula: No, I'm sticking with rain. Nobody gets to say what somebody else's vagina smells like....especially if he's going to say fish.
KK: If we're thinking of Febreze scents, then I'm going to change mine. My vagina Febreze scent is sunshine, not mountain air. My vagina smells like sunshine.
M: Mine is ....  fresh man walking out of a shower.
Everybody: That's the best Febreze scent ever!
KK: OK, I'm changing mine again. This time I'm sure. My Febreze vagina scent is honey cream hops.
Reticula: Mmmm. That sounds like a favorite beverage. Maybe next time we should say what our vagina's favorite beverage should be. (Wait for it...)
KS: My vagina Febreze scent is new car.
Everybody: New car!!!  Does your vagina really smell like new car?

KS: I'm telling you, my vagina smells like new car. I'm the only lesbian here, so I'm the expert on what vaginas smell like. New car. 

Epilogue:

KS: OMG. New car Febreze smells like old lady.
Reticula: What does that mean? Did you buy some?
KS: Yes. And I mean it stinks. I want to change my Febreze vagina scent.
Reticula: Too late. You already chose. Your vagina smells like new car.
KS: But new car Febreze smells like old lady toilet.
Reticula: Do mean the toilette that's watered-down perfume or the toilet your cat drinks out of?
KS: Is there a difference?
Reticula: I dunno. It's your vagina.


If your vagina smelled like a Febreze scent, what would it be?

Day 27: Wordless Wednesday

Day 23: Get in line

I don't write about racism very often, not because I don't think about it a lot, but because I'm afraid I'm going to say something insensitive  or offensive, certainly without meaning to, and that I'll lose friends or everybody will hate me. Yeah, it's all about me. Tonight I just need to get something off my chest though. And if I do offend any of you, please tell me and I'll do my best to learn from it. I promise that.

Someone posted in a Facebook group I'm in that she was a victim of racism. She said a black cashier opened up a lane and motioned past her, a "lily-white woman," and also past the first person in line to the third woman in line, who was also a black woman. A "sistah," she called her. (I know. I cringed too.) Lily-white was pissed. I guess she's used to being the favorite child.

She got her ass handed to her for suggesting that she was a victim of racism. It was swift and brutal. I'm not going to define racism for you, because I assume if you're still reading here, you understand the fallacy. I have faith you wouldn't be here if you didn't have a basic understanding of how racism works and why Lily-white can't be a victim of racism and furthermore, why neither the cashier nor the woman who was third in line can perpetuate a racist act on her or anyone. Honestly, I thought we'd all agreed on that decades ago, so I'm always surprised when it has to be explained again as if we were in racism kindergarten.

Here's what I want to say about that though. If it were me, I wouldn't give a shit if she brought the third woman, the black woman, to the front of her new line. For all the black women who have sat in the back of the bus, or stood on the bus while white people sat, who have been denied service in restaurants, who have been denied basic amenities like bathrooms, who have gone to schools with no books, who have been told to get to the back of the line throughout the history of this nation, I would welcome her to bring the black woman to the front of the line.

I'm going to get even more personal. For my friend Collette, who was my neighbor and close friend years ago when we lived on Robins Air Force Base in the very middle of Georgia in the early 80's, the most racist place I've ever lived. For Collette, who would go out to eat with her husband at a restaurant and sit there .... and sit there ... and ask to be served and then .... sit there until they gave up and left. Who would hold out her hand for her change at the grocery store only to have it thrown instead on the counter by a cashier who refused to pick it up and put it in her hand, even when Collette insisted. Who was embarrassed by the way her mother treated me, because her mother didn't understand why we would be friends, even though they weren't from the Deep South, they were from Detroit. Who had a master's degree in engineering in spite of everyfuckingthing. Why shouldn't Collette have had a chance at the front of the line back then? That's right. She should have, Lily-white, but it wasn't going to happen in Macon, Georgia. Not then. And apparently not enough has changed even now.

For all of those women, past and present, who are still practically and metaphorically told to go to the back of the line, who can work and work and work and still the front of the line is too far away, please go ahead of me in the line at Walmart. For fuck's sake. Is it not the smallest possible gesture to not get your panties in a wad just because a black woman goes to the head of the line at Walmart while you wait 5 minutes, Lily-white?

I'm not going to stretch that metaphor for you any more. I think it's pretty clear. It's not really about lines at Walmart .... and yet, it is. If a black woman can't go to the head of the line at Walmart without Lily-white clutching her pearls and fainting, then how the hell are we ever going to fix the fact that black women have to fight harder than anyone for a place in line at all?

What I hope is that Lily-white learned something from the barrage of comments she had to endure before she left the group. And I hope maybe some other women read those comments and learned something too. If nothing else, maybe Lily-white's faux pas provided an educational experience. It certainly made me think and react.

I hope next time Lily-white has an opportunity to let a black woman go to the front of the line, she will think twice about how often she's been at the front of the line herself for no other reason than she was born with lighter skin. Because let's be honest, that's no reason to always be at the front of the line. Women have to share that line with each other, because we've all been held back from the front of the line, and black women most of all.

That's all I want to say tonight. Share the front of the damn line. Those billionaires who own Walmart are the real enemies, our common enemies. They're the ones who are controlling our access to the lines that matter -- the ones the most of us aren't even standing in. The enemy is not the cashier who works there and is certainly not the woman who was behind you in line, Lily-white. Focus on what's really important. We have a lot of work to do. Together.

Day 26: Inspiration Monday

John Lunceford
Photo credit: Kennewick School District

My friends, it has been a Monday. I'm not going to describe it, because I need to let it pass on out of my life, but I'll say two things. First, working for rich people is eye-opening and frustrating and often demeaning in ways they don't mean, but that still feel that way. And the second thing I'll say about this Monday is that I'm so far behind getting ready for Thanksgiving I'm not sure how I'll get it all done. But I will, because I always do. And if the house isn't as clean as I like it, my family and friends won't even notice. It's about the food and the thanks and nothing else.

Since it's been one of those days, I'm going to share just a few stories that caught my attention recently and made me feel good. I hope they brighten your day too -- even though your day is probably Tuesday because I'm writing this after midnight.

Here's one about John Lunceford, a bus driver who saw a need and immediately did something about it. It didn't cost him much, but I'll bet he got paid back in a lot of good karma. You can read about his good deed on the Kennewick School District Facebook page.

And then there's this story about an elderly retired teacher who was unable to do the upkeep on her house. The city was threatening her with code violations that could have cost her $3000 a day. She shared the information with her neighbors, who put together a work party. Twenty-five people showed up and the results were amazing. You can read more about it in this article on the Truth Theory website.

And then there's Ismael Essome Ebone, a guy from Cameroon who figured out how to build boats from plastic bottles. He didn't turn his idea into a corporate money-maker though. He started a non-profit for collecting plastic waste and turning it into fishing boats and boats for eco-tourism and plastic-bottle bins he designed to collect recyclables. 

Don't even get me started on plastic water bottles. I used to do an exercise about evidence in research writing with my college freshmen where I had them add up how many plastic bottles they used in a week. And then how many the campus probably used. And then the city. It was stunning. Many of them started using their own reusable bottles after that, but we all know our use of throw-away plastic bottles in this country is a sin.

OK, I said I wouldn't get started. I will say though that we can all find ways to help people, both small and large. The ways, not the people. Tis the season and all that. I find these stories inspirational and a reminder that I can always do more -- although probably not this week unless you count that turkey dinner I'll be preparing over the next three days.

Do good deeds, my friends. We're all in this together.

Day 24: People stink

I'm trying not to get sick tonight. I got perfume bombed three times in the past three days. Three is often my unlucky number when it comes to the devil perfume. The third time usually awakens my immune system and sets off a red alert. Attack imminent. Flood the sinuses, tickle the throat, inflame the tongue, and shut down the vocal cords! Hard! It sucks being a red-headed canary, because we live in a scent-polluted environment. Perfume is everywhere, and for those of us who are sensitive -- like most redheads -- it can be like trying to navigate poisonous gas clouds. Like I've been doing the past three days.

The first dose hit me at the farmer's market where I work. A former student showed up and I gave him a big hug without doing a sniff test first. Oh, so stupid. He was wearing a strong cologne, and after I hugged him, so was I. For the next four hours. I could barely stand to be in my own clothes. I could barely stand to breathe. That was #1.

Then I went to the bathroom, as one must sometimes. And somebody had sprayed the hell out of some Febreze in there. I don't know why they put that shit in the stalls there .... OK, I do, but I'd rather smell poop-linger than fucking Febreze. I will confess this only here because you won't tell on me. One day I was so frustrated by the heavy, sickening smell of Febreze in there, I hid both cans in the bottom of the big metal trash can. It was replaced the next day.

I tried to hold my breath while I peed, but it had been hours, so I had to take a few breaths. I washed my hands and ran out of there, but of course, I still smelled like cologne from my previous encounter. Now I smelled like cologne and the most fake of fake flowers.

I was still doing OK though. Just the normal post-nasal drip and a sore tongue, which is one of my early warning signs. I suffered through my annual fall allergy/laryngitis attack less than a month ago, so my immune system is trying to take a little vacay.

And then this morning I walked into the small church I've been attending and bam! As soon as I entered the small sanctuary, somebody's perfume hit me in the face. I considered leaving, but I thought maybe I could find a place far enough away from the person to sit comfortably.

I looked around and found two chairs together where Coraline and I could sit. My throat closed up. Fuck me. I was sitting right behind the offender. I got up and moved to the other side of the room as fast as I could. I could still smell it, because once it gets into my nose and mouth, I can smell and taste it long after I've left the area. I thought I could ride it out, even though my tongue was starting to hurt already. I get stubborn sometimes. I was getting a little congested as the service went on, and then we did one of those touchy-feely hugging exercises that liberal churches like to do. I usually love those things, but just as I was about to go back to my chair, the scent offender headed straight toward me. And before I knew it, she was hugging me. No! No no no no no!

Too late. It was on me. I was lucky I had a big scarf around my neck though, and most of the smell got on it. I took it off and buried it under my coat. We left before the post-service talk circle because one, the offender was still there walking around the room. And two, I needed to change my clothes as soon as I could.

By tomorrow morning I'll know if my immune system has decided enough is enough. I might get lucky. Or I might run into enough scented shit when I'm at the grocery store or at one of my jobs or at the library and I might be sick for a couple of weeks. Yeah, it's always at least a couple of weeks. And since this week is my favorite holiday ... well, we'll see.

The winter holidays are the worst time for those of us who are scent sensitive. Houses are closed up. People seem to think they need to wear more heavy perfume. And burn scented candles. I've had to leave parties before because of scented candles. I always feel like a bitch when I ask someone if I can please blow out their candles or I'll have to leave. Often I just take a chance on getting sick if someone is wearing light scent and I really want to be with that person.

And yes, I've been tested. When I had the poke-on-the-back, air-born allergens test, I reacted to everything, including the saline control. Apparently that means I'm not allergic to anything, but I'm sensitive to everything. No help for that. And when I was tested for skin allergens, same thing. I reacted to most of the chemicals (and bees wax and sunflowers and ....), and I had a strong reaction to the tape the dermatologist used to make grids on my back. The glue ate my skin off. This is life in a redheaded body. I can tolerate small amounts of some natural essential oils, but that's about it.

If you take a day to notice how many scented products you use or see other people using in a day, you might be amazed -- unless you're a weirdo like me. Everything is scented, from hand sanitizers to lotions, dish soap to cleaners, hair products to deodorants to douches ... I mean women actually perfume their vaginas! Laundry soap and softeners are the worst. One of my neighbors runs a dryer that vents to the front of their house, and when they're doing laundry, I can't even stay outside because the smell of their fabric softener is so strong.

One of the hundreds of reasons I don't date is because I don't want to have to deal with the cologne or scented deodorant so many men wear. I recently turned down dinner with a guy who started a conversation with me at the grocery store because he was wearing enough cologne I could smell it. It smelled expensive. If I weren't me, it probably might have smelled delicious, sexy even. He was tall, handsome, well dressed, said he had a good job, was shopping in the ritzy grocery store, was proud of being a grandfather. I'll just say it. He had strong potential. But I knew I could get sick if I spent much time around him. (Also, I don't date and cologne is about #583 #15 on the list of why I turn down such opportunities.)

Fortunately I'm not the only weirdo. A lot of people are either sensitive and get sick from scents like I do or they just don't like so many scents because they can overload the lovely natural odors of people and places. Many churches, hospitals, and schools are scent-free zones now. I wish theatres (the kind where plays are performed) were, because people tend to drench themselves before they go to the theatah. I've had to move several times at plays, and I've been miserable more often when I couldn't.

And companies are making more scent-free products. I have a short list my dermatologist gave me. The products are often more expensive, but they don't make me sick. I can't control what other people use, but I can control my own home and body most of the time.

A coda to the story of the church offender: A member of the congregation had to move away from her as well, and she noticed I did too, so she talked to the offender about it. The offender denied wearing any scent even as she stood there with waves of it coming off her. (She lies!)  That doesn't bode well for the next time. I've known people who were adamant about wearing perfumes or colognes no matter how sick their smell made other people, but maybe she'll think twice on Sunday mornings.

If you thought this post was whiny, just wait and see what you get tomorrow night if I wake up sick and can't talk tomorrow. Fingers crossed, please!

Day 23: Weekend Update: Out of wine

The tissue box on my coffee table

I thought about doing one of those "sharing a bottle of wine" posts, but I'm out of Chardonnay. Lucky you. You get to see inside my head after I've had a glass of water to drink.

One of the weird things about writing a blog like mine -- one that has no theme and is rarely updated these days unless it's November -- is that I can never predict which posts will get attention. (The only reason for writing a blog is to get attention. I can't think of any other reason, can you?) About 98% of the time I'm writing after midnight, so I write, revise, edit, and publish all within anywhere from an hour to three hours. I go to bed not knowing what the response, if anything, will be to the piece of my heart I spread on this blank page like peanut butter.

The weird thing is, I can write something I think is brilliant decent. Maybe even better than decent. Something that has several clever plays on words, and a few funny bits, and a touch of poignancy. I pat myself on the back and go to bed to dream of the three comments I'll see under the post when I wake up. In the morning I check my Facebook and the comments here and .... nothing. Not even a like. I have to look out the window and make sure I'm not the last person left alive on Earth. I'm not. 

And then I might write one that I'm afraid sounds like I'm a whiny, insipid bitch and that nobody will read to the end, and much to my surprise that will be the one that strikes a chord with you guys. Like last night's post about mean memes. So far, it's November's most popular post, going by the number of comments. (Most of them are on Facebook so they won't be archived here.)

I don't think that says as much about the post as it does how very sick we all are of the lack of civility in this country, a lot of it driven by what we see on Facebook and what comes out of the White House. It's demoralizing. It wears our skin thin. And yet we don't dare look away ... it's like weighing myself before bed and first thing in morning every single fucking day. I just can't look away.

Several people have asked me how Crow is doing. I wrote about how he injured his leg here. He's better, but he's still limping. He's off his heavy meds and his spirits are good. He keeps sneaking up the stairs when I'm up here at my computer, so he can lay on his bed next to my desk like he's used to. Tonight he got up here and Sassy was on his bed, so he came over to me and begged for pets. He doesn't usually do that, so I petted him, which meant Sassy came over for pets too. As soon as she did, he limped over to his bed and reclaimed it. Pretty tricky.

I think he's going to have to go back to the vet for his constant ear infections though. (I could have bought a Lamborghini with the money I've spent on vet bills for his ear infections. If anybody has a cure for chronic ear infections, please share it.) I'll have the vet look at his leg too. I think it just takes time to heal from an injury like that.

I was listening to the podcast I mentioned in the first post this month, 10 Things that Scare Me. I don't usually pay attention to the ads and announcements, but I finally heard one of the producers say they want people to share their lists on their website and it might end up on the podcast. So I'm going to do that and maybe I'll get on! If you write your own list, you should share it too and let me know.

I've thought about doing a podcast here, but I don't really know how to produce such a thing. And then I thought maybe a vlog, but it would be me sitting in a dimly lit room with the Netflix fireplace playing off to the side, the dog snoring in the background, my face lit by the screen of my little laptop, reading my little post. I dunno. It doesn't sound that appealing to me. Also, what do you look like after midnight? I don't think any of you need to see that.

I'm in the middle of Brittany Runs a Marathon. (See trailer below.) In a minute I'm going to hit publish on this post and watch some more of it until I fall asleep on the couch. I love movies where the fat, lazy, loser girl does something that turns her life around and suddenly she's not a fat loser any more. I guess I still hope I can change the inevitable epitaph on my tombstone. Like I'll write that book or get that cool job or ... hell, I don't even know any more. I'm sure as hell not going to run a fucking marathon. I guess I'll go with finishing that movie and going to bed before 3:00 am.

Day 22: A letter to a mean girl

The other day somebody posted this in a Facebook group for women that I belong to. A group of over 12,000 that exists to support women. Lots of women laughed. Lots of women said they were going to start doing this. Some said they already did do it. One woman said she's going to make a commitment to do it at least once a week. Well, I have something to say to the person who posted it and to all the women who thought it was a good idea.

Unacceptable Schitts GIF from Unacceptable GIFs

I'll start with this disclaimer before I start kicking some ass: Yes, I have real problems. I have real shit to deal with. I probably shouldn't spend my time or my energy giving this another thought. This is why my mom always said I think too much. On the other hand, it pisses me off that mean girls grow up to be mean women, and also I haven't written a rant this month yet, so tonight I'm going to tell you what I think about this shit.

An open letter to anybody who thinks this is funny:

What the fuck is wrong with you? In this scenario we have three women: a woman whom you perceive is rich and snooty; you, the woman who thinks another woman -- a stranger -- is rich and snooty and who furthermore wants to put her in her place; and an unseen woman who works in a grocery store and probably thinks you're pretty snooty yourself.

Let's start with the rich and snooty woman. How the hell can you tell if a woman you don't even know is rich and snooty? By the way she dresses? What if she just came from a funeral? Or a job interview and she really hopes she got the job because they're about to lose their house and she didn't make a point of smiling at your stranger face because she's preoccupied with her own life? What if she just likes to look nice when she goes out? My guess is she's just minding her own fucking business and doesn't even know she's offended you just because you decided she is rich and snooty and will be offended when you ask her where the almond milk is. And my other guess is that you've been watching too much Schitt's Creek, but really, mean girl, what made you decide this particular woman should be the target of your desire for comeuppance?

Can you tell by the items in her cart? Is she buying truffles, $25/pound wild salmon, thick Kobe beef steaks, a case of Champagne .... what the hell do these rich bitches eat that the rest of us don't? And what the hell is in your cart that makes you so fucking proud? I'll tell you what I judge: a cart full of Cheetos and Fruit Loops and hot dogs and Capri Sun and Wonder Bread and Coke and ... Get my drift? But hey. If your cart is loaded down with fresh fruits and vegetables, lean free-range meat, hearty whole grains, and just a bit of slave-free dark chocolate, you win a ham sandwich! Judge away.

Maybe you can tell by the obvious Botox in her non-existent frown lines? By the fact that her face doesn't move even when you ask her where the toothpaste aisle is, even though your entire plan for the day is to fuck with her world? Or maybe her face didn't move because she wasn't offended that you think she works in a grocery store. More on that.

Can you tell by the tiny teacup poodle with a diamond collar in her handbag? By the color of her hair, which looks gorgeous and just a little too natural? The color of her skin? Shall we go there? Yeah, I didn't think so. How the fuck do you tell?

One of my many part-time jobs is to shop for someone who could probably be considered rich at a grocery store where lots of people who are wealthier than I will ever be shop. I have to tell you, I don't even notice if the other women there look rich or not. I couldn't tell you if they're snooty or not either, although I can tell you sometimes one will butt in line at the deli so I assume she's either rude or impervious to my death stare or preoccupied or simply stupid. If I were dressed up for some reason and went there to shop for someone else (for food that I will throw away a week later, but that's another issue), might you think I was rich and snooty? Might you ask me what aisle the tampons are in?

I don't really want to talk about the second woman -- you -- because I don't like you, and I'm giving you more attention than you deserve, and I'm here to talk to your classist ass.

What about the third woman, the woman who works in a grocery store. The woman whose position in life is so low you certainly wouldn't want to be her. I mean, you'll let her ring up your purchases and bag your groceries -- unless she's lost her job because now you're doing all that for yourself. But no. Cashiers and baggers and stockers of shelves still have jobs in grocery stores where rich, snooty women shop. And apparently where you shop. Thank you, Jesus, you don't have to work in a grocery store though, right? You're not rich and snooty, but you're also not .... that poor.

(Ooops. Did I mention I grocery shop for a rich woman? Yeah, most really rich women don't do their own grocery shopping. Snooty or not, they have people who do that for them and it puts food on our tables.)

This reminds me of when men call other men by feminine names. You know, when men call boys "girls" and it's the biggest insult because no guy wants to be a girl. Nobody with a dick should fall so low as to be like a girl. And yet here we have women -- you -- doing it to other women. Pretending an alleged rich and snooty woman is someone who works in a grocery store because you think that's such an insult. Who is the real cunt here?

In conclusion, I think we've determined that the problem is not the alleged rich, snooty woman and it's certainly not the grocery store employee. The problem is you. The problem is that you decided today that you wanted to put someone down because .... I don't know why and I don't give even 1/3 of a fuck really. You've probably got a therapist and you still don't know what makes you happy. Obviously though it makes you feel better to insult two classes of women who never did a damn thing to you and who don't even know you with your stupid meme. Really. Fuck you. Jesus is not on your side here and he didn't even think rich people could get through the eye of a needle.

Schitts Creek GIF from Schitts GIFs

I am not defending rich people. I'm fucking sick of the greedy pigs and I think we should make them pay some taxes -- how about at my rate? -- and then eat them. But this isn't about that. This is mean girl shit that you should have put away in 7th grade. I've always hated this kind of behavior, and I'm embarrassed for you that you still think this is funny. Find another way to "keep things real." Like minding your own fucking business.

This rant has been brought to you by someone who is sick of the lack of civility in this country. Can I get an amen?

Sincerely,
Reticula

Day 21: Throwback Thursday: Nice Fresh Trout

It's been a long day, my friends. I worked and drove a lot and mopped a big room with a big mop. So tonight I chose one of my favorite posts from the past to share with you. It's a snippet from a conversation at karaoke night. A couple of you will remember it. I hope I don't bore you by posting it again or give you existential angst when you realize it's over six years old. And yet my vagina still smells like .... Oh, just read the post.

A karaoke snippet: Something smells a little fishy....

From February 22, 2013

Fishmonger*:  You know that's what the gay men say, don't you? Vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Vaginas do not smell like fish. My vagina does not smell like a fish.

Fishmonger: I'm just repeating what they say. And it's not all vaginas. It's just some vaginas.

Me: I'm telling you the gay men lie. What would they know about vaginas anyway? They don't get close enough to a vagina to smell one.

Fishmonger: But I'm not saying all vaginas, and maybe not under all circumstances.

Me: OK, maybe if she ate tuna or salmon and the fish smell came out in her .... you know.

Fishmonger: Well, as someone who has a lot of experience on both sides, I can vouch that some vaginas smell like fish.

Me: Mine doesn't. And I don't think vaginas smell like fish in general.

Maria*: (Who has just finished a production of The Vagina Monologues, quotes in a singsong voice.) "My vagina smells like .... rain!"

Me: That's it. Me too. My vagina smells like rain.

Maria: Not really though....

Me: Yes, it does. It smells like rain. It really does. (To Fishmonger) It does not smell like fish. My vagina smells like rain.

Fishmonger: It's not necessarily a bad thing. It can be a good thing. Sometimes vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout.

Me: Nice, fresh trout!!! You call that a compliment? OK, I'm calling in an expert. (I turn to Martini, who has for some reason not been listening to this vagina conversation.)  Martini, give us your honest opinion. Do vaginas smell like nice, fresh trout?

Martini: (long, thoughtful pause) I have not actually encountered that much trout.

Wait a damn minute! Are you saying I smell like a vagina? I smell like fish. Everybody knows vaginas smell like rain.     (Credit: US Department of Agriculture)

Day 20: Wordless Wednesday: Me when somebody drops a piece of chocolate

via GIPHY

Day 19: If we were sharing a bottle of wine again

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I'd remark that there are differences between the generations that only I notice. For example, one difference between Millenials and Boomers is that Millenials say "motherfucker" a lot. It's almost like they use "motherfucker" as a pronoun -- the antecedent being "all people." Boomers not so much. We broke the ice by saying "fuck," a word many of our parents hated. Well, I hate that other word myself, and I wish my Millenial son wouldn't say it, but if I say something to him you know what I'll get back, don't you? Yeah, I'm not saying that either.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine and sitting in a rocker on my porch, we might hear the wind chimes from one of my neighbors' porches across the street. I would grit my teeth and you would laugh because my hatred of wind chimes is legendary. I should add that to my list of things that scare me. 11. A new neighbor will move in and hang a bunch of fucking wind chimes on her porch. Or will sit outside and watch football games with the volume turned really loud. Because I hate the sound of a football game on TV almost as much as I hate wind chimes. Well, maybe 45% as much. I spent too many years listening to football games all weekend long every fall and winter. It's the sound of family time slipping through the hour glass, never to return again.

The other day I was at my computer working in my office and I kept hearing this man's voice droning on and on. It was loud enough to break my concentration, but not quite loud enough that I could make out the words. I couldn't see anybody out the window, and it didn't sound like anybody else was talking. I live in a double brick house so it's unusual for me to hear talking outside from the back of my house unless my neighbor is on his patio right under the window. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer and I went outside to let the dogs poop and seek the source.

My neighbor across the alley was sitting at a table on his patio, all the way across his back yard, listening to a football game with the volume so high I could understand every word from my back yard. I could just see him through a crack in his fence. What the actual fuck? It was 40 degrees out there!

Since then he's been out there for several hours every day listening to a damn football game with the volume turned way up. This morning it was 35 degrees out and that fucking football announcer was droning away.

I will admit to you I have misophonia. I've written about it before when my neighbor was running a bug zapper 24 hours a day. The football games make me want to drive my van through my neighbor's fence and crash into his TV. If we were drinking that bottle of wine, you'd offer to top me off and then you'd change the subject.

If we were sharing a bottle of wine, I would ask you if you've ever heard of injecting semen into yourself to get rid of back pain like this guy in Dublin did. Because honest to god, I've had back surgery and before I let a doctor cut into my back I did every fucking thing I could to cure it myself. Yet I never once considered injecting semen into my arm. It's not really one of those "why didn't I think of that?" solutions.

Apparently he'd been doing it every month for a year and a half! And then this .... ummmm .... bubble of collected semen under his skin got infected. That's not why he went to the ER though. He went to the ER because his back hurt. I can not define irony any better than that!

Apparently his back felt better after he got to the hospital, so he left before the doctors could drain his semen .... from his arm. Oh how I wish I were really saying this to you in person. Drain his semen from his arm!

Don't try this at home, Millenials. 


Oh, yes, I did, motherfuckers! OK that, kids!

Cheers!

Day 18: Sit next to me

A couple of years ago someone tweeted the terrifying dystopian future you see above. Makes you shudder, right? Or wrong. I hope wrong or you're probably reading the wrong blog.

I'm not giving away any secrets if I tell you I am a proud, life-long liberal, and that future up there, that makes this small-town girl from rural Iowa giddy with possibilities. Imagine the conversation those two might have if one of them didn't have her face in her phone. Imagine the stories they might tell each other. The common ground they might find. I want to eavesdrop. Hell, I want to join in. Or maybe they'd just talk about the weather, because .... people are just people. Neither a wig nor a burka makes them anything other than human.

Unfortunately a lot people are terrified of people who are different from them. They've been fed a load of xenophobic horseshit to keep them fearful and under control and guarantees they will direct their anger at someone other than the ultra-rich sons of bitches who are the real problem in this country.

I got messages like that too as I was growing up, but it was the 60's and then the 70's, and I wasn't buying it. I was suspicious of sexism and racism and all the many other -ism's, much to my dad's dismay. Let's just say we did a lot of pounding on the kitchen table and never resolved our differences before he died when I was 24 and he was 46.

I lived in a town where the one time a black family (I have no idea where they came from) showed up at the public swimming pool, all the parents hurried up there and got their kids out. I wasn't at the pool that day, but word spread fast that there was a family of (insert any offensive racist name you know here) were in the swimming pool. I jumped on my bike and headed for the pool so I could swim with the black children so they wouldn't be alone in the pool. So I could join the Civil Rights Movement. They were gone and the pool was empty by the time I got there. I didn't get to make up for the cruelty of some of my neighbors. I was naive enough then to think that was possible.

I don't mean to sound like I never got out of that small town. My family did go on vacations to Yellowstone, Colorado, and Michigan. My dad liked to drive the back roads, so as we passed through South Dakota we sometimes drove through Indian reservations, as they were called at the time. I'm not going to repeat what my dad said about the Native Americans who lived on the reservations. The poverty there was obviously even worse than where I came from, but I didn't believe it was for the reasons my dad spouted. Needless to say, we didn't stop and get acquainted. Not that the people whose homes we were driving past were eager to meet us. They wished, and still wish, my ancestors had stayed in Europe. Rightly so.

When I left home at age 17, I moved to Iowa City and later a little ways north to Cedar Rapids. I got jobs working as a bartender. Now maybe I could meet some people who didn't look just like me.

The guy who trained me to tend bar at a Ramada Inn in Iowa City, Michael St. John, was from Mexico. He didn't call himself a Mexican though. He said he was an Indian, and he was proud of his heritage. I loved his stories about home. He taught me how to make a classic Margarita and he got a lot of middle-aged men laid in those motel rooms. He would put one foot up on a chair, strum his guitar, and serenade their wives with love songs while they swooned. When he sang "Please Release Me" you'd have thought Elvis himself was trying to woo his way into their big white cotton panties. They dripped. I was not naive though. I  knew as I stood behind the bar and poured drinks while he raked in the tips that he wouldn't dare walk up to one of those women under any other circumstances and flirt with her. He was only safe so long as he had his hands on that guitar.

A couple of years later when I was tending bar in a disco in Cedar Rapids, I met someone much like the transgender woman in the photo, a performer who called herself Bovine LeSwine. She told me how the saleswomen in the shoe department at JC Penney were openly rude to her, and wouldn't let her try on heels, even though she had money to buy them. And one night after the disco closed, I cleaned up her face and gave her ice in a towel after some guys jumped her after her show at another bar and beat her up. It was pretty bad, but we didn't call the police. I already knew it wasn't cool to be different; I learned it wasn't safe either.

I also learned not to take tips from the Arab students (male, of course), because they thought they were buying me with their tips, and they got pretty angry when they found out I was married and a tip was just a tip. A couple of those men were frighteningly persistent and made me glad for hefty doormen.

For a while, I worked for two Lebanese brothers who owned another popular disco, and I loved it when they took me home for dinner. Their mother didn't speak much English, but her food was delicious. And different from anything I'd ever eaten. Mothers like her are universal. I'm one now myself.

I think my dad would have liked it if I'd learned to be suspicious of people from other countries, of different races, after I left home, but that didn't happen. Quite the opposite. These few experiences only made me want more diversity. I still lived in a fairly monotonous, I mean homogeneous, world while I was in Iowa. I knew there was more out there.

I finally got out of Iowa when the Air Force sent LtColEx to Sacramento. I will never forget my first trip to the zoo. People from all over the world, speaking many languages, wearing clothing of every kind, crowded together like the city of Babel to see the animals. It was amazing! I went back over and over the year we lived there, and not so much to see the animals. In fact, I couldn't tell you anything at all about the animals now. I often just sat on a bench and watched and listened to the people, marveling at the array of cultures.

I'm not going to go through my whole long life since I left Iowa and tell you about everybody I've met who was different from me. Even I don't write blog posts that long. But I will tell you I haven't lost my desire to connect with people who come from different life experiences from mine. I've gone out of my way to meet people who are different from me in various ways. Maybe it's because I'm a writer. Or maybe I'm a writer because I'm fascinated by people's stories and backgrounds, their cultures and how we are different and the same.

Unless you too grew up pre-internet in a small town in Iowa (or any other state, I would imagine), you can't know how stultifying and stifling homogeneity can be. I think my craving for meeting people -- or hell, let's just start with one person -- from another race or another culture or another country started when I was born. My parents lost me one time at the Greyhound bus depot in Des Moines when I was two. They finally found me talking to some guy in a phone booth. OK, that sounds bad, like I was in a phone booth with a strange man who probably wasn't from Krypton. What I imagine happened though was that he was talking on the phone, and I, being two and not knowing that he wasn't talking to me, was talking to him about something that made no sense at all, if he were even paying attention. Let's just say I've never met a stranger, and my parents were never able to beat that out of me, although they did try.

Back to the photo at the top. It's an old one, but sadly I think it's still relevant. We're still getting the message that people who are different from us, whether it's a different culture or shade of skin or sexual orientation or political affiliation*, are suspect. Dangerous.** The enemy. They're trying to take something from us that we don't want to give.

I just don't want to live that way. I'm not sure why my dad wasn't able to indoctrinate me. Maybe it was the times, but I think it was something inherent in my nature. And I'm grateful for that. I consider it one of my superpowers. Sorry, Dad. If I believed in Heaven, I'd hope you found out there are a lot of people there, and they don't all look like you. I don't believe in Heaven (or Hell) though, so I'm glad I came with that lesson pre-learned here on Earth.


*I get stuck on that last one in the list, because political affiliation does make some people dangerous and I am afraid of some people because of their politics. So that's a complicated one, and it's probably another post, but I probably won't write it. I get enough politics on Facebook. But I will say, the only way I've found to cross a river of differences is to try to meet on a bridge and try to find common ground. Hard as that is. And as long as it's safe.

** I am not ignoring that there are dangerous people out there, and someone who is not dangerous for me might be dangerous for someone else. And vice versa.