I write

I recently went to a writer's conference in my dining room. Pretty much the only way I'm going to get to one, COVID or not. Someone asked in a break-out session why I write a blog. It's certainly not because bloggers are well respected in the writing community. Quite the opposite. Anybody can write a blog, after all. And in case you haven't heard -- because obviously you haven't if you're reading this -- nobody reads blogs any more. It's a fair question, and one I need to answer for myself, since I keep coming back here and writing.*

The most compelling reason for writing here is because I need the income. I make a ton of money writing blog posts and if you'll give me $2000, I'll show you how I do it.

The most compelling reason I do it is because after doing it for so many years, and after writing almost 750 posts, I just need to do it. My Muse, Dolores, is not someone who likes to be put in the corner. If I go too long with her whispering ideas and words and sentences in my ear, I start to feel anxious. I feel a need to get her voice out of my head. I learn from what I write, and putting words on paper or a screen, helps me sort things out, see things more clearly. And being the extrovert I am, having an audience is the whipped cream on the pumpkin pie. Being my own audience, not so much.

Another reason I write is somewhat more altruistic. Because I can write whatever I want (1st Amendment and all that), I write whatever I feel like writing in the moment I'm in. I do not publish everything that happens in my life, but I do tackle some difficult topics when the need arises. I can't tell you how many times I've written a post that I almost didn't publish because it felt too raw or I felt too vulnerable or I didn't think people would get it, and not only did a lot of you get it, some of you actually needed to read it as much as I needed to write it.

Few things are more gratifying to me than getting an email or a message that says, "Thank you for writing that. I have the same problem [went through the same thing] [have the same fears] [worry about this too], but I don't have the words to express it myself." Some people don't feel safe writing it down, and I get that. Sometimes I write things that turn out to feel not so safe. Some people haven't been able to put into words what they're feeling. That's my job as a writer, and it's a privilege to do it.

I know what it's like to have my voice silenced, whether by someone else or by my own fears. When I can put something into words that are meaningful and helpful for someone else ... it's just the best feeling. 

The third reason I write here is entirely selfish. I like the attention. I love it when I can start a conversation that continues past what I write. I love it when someone comes up to me at a party (back when such a thing existed) and tells me how much they loved a particular post, and how it made them laugh or cry or, best of all, both. More than once I've been at a party and someone has introduced me to a stranger as "Reticula. You should read her blog. It's really funny and she writes a lot about vaginas." It's a great conversation starter, and I like being the vagina-writer.

One of the best times though was at a party where we were playing Cards Against Humanity. No other game loosens people up as much as that one. One of the players was someone I knew from the theater community, but had never met in person. He made a comment about something he'd read. It was obviously this blog he was talking about, so I responded and we talked for a minute. Finally he said, "Wait! Are you Reticulated Writer? That's you?"

I said, "Well .... yeah. I thought you knew that. You brought it up."

"I didn't!" he said. "I just love your blog. I read it all the time."

That's a high, my friends. It's like one millionth of a percent of being famous. It's like being a hair on Dolly Parton's wig. Heady stuff.

Those are my top reasons, and I guess some of my reasons are also reasons you read here too. Maybe you like what I say or the way I say it. I don't dare think a lot about why other people read here, because even though I write for an audience in my head, I don't want to feel censored by that imagined, yet real, audience. I censor myself, but this is my living room and nobody else should be able to silence the telling of my story.

I have written posts that pissed people off before. There was that one guy I dated who didn't like what I wrote about him, even though every bit of it is true. One thing I don't do is lie here. I took it down and I've always regretted it. It was my story and if he didn't like the way he acted in my story, he shouldn't have dated a writer. Especially not a red-headed writer.

I know I'm not everybody's cup of tea. Otherwise I'd have a big book deal like some of the uber famous bloggers. It's not like I'm turning down offers from Penguin or Random House, and The New Yorker is only offering me a free tote bag with my one-year subscription.

Some people have complained that I don't write about vaginas enough these days. I agree! I need to get on that. Others used to complain that I wrote about vaginas too much. I said at least I wasn't writing about my own. What's the problem? A couple of people even unfriended me on Facebook over vagina posts. That's OK with me. If somebody comes here and finds offense, that's on them. I tell the truth here and every post is authentically me. Once my words are published, I have no control over how people absorb or react to what I'm saying. Here's what I do when I'm offended by content on a blog or website though. I move my handy cursor arrow right to the little X on the right side of the tab for that page and I click it. Poof. It's gone like Donald Trump's tan when he takes a shower. 

Here's the bottom line. I love knowing 99% of you who are reading this are here because you like what I write, you enjoy reading it, and we have some kind of connection through my words. I am grateful that I can imagine myself talking to you like this, as friends. Even as a confidant. It helps, especially now when we're so isolated. In the lonely hours of the night when I usually write, it helps to know that some of you will read my words and get to know my heart and mind and like me anyway.

Stay safe and well, my friends. 

*I've already written over 2500 words today that I can use for NaNoWriMo. I'm still on track if I keep my butt in the chair.

Thanksgiving 2020: It's going to be OK

 

I had to laugh when a friend posted this today.

I think I've written a Thanksgiving post every year for the past 10 years. I'm too lazy to check. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and it falls during NaBloPoMo, when I usually post a blog post every day in November. This year I'm not doing NaBloPoMo and I'm not planning that big Thanksgiving dinner. I'm not offering invitations to friends and strangers who have no place to go or who don't feel welcome with their family or who would just rather let someone else do all that cooking ... or my kids, who don't really have a choice on their mom's favorite holiday. I don't celebrate Easter and I'll even give up Christmas Day (although it turns out they won't. God love them) but Thanksgiving is my day.

This year -- the year of 2020 -- my day has been coopted by a tiny, vicious, virulent, politicized, stupid-head virus. Although I still have much to give thanks for, Thanksgiving won't be the same. And you know what? I'll get through it and so will you if we're smart and lucky and we manage to stay healthy. Some of us won't be so lucky ... but this is about Thanksgiving.

Here's how I know I can get through a Thanksgiving with just my 9-year-old granddaughter Coraline and me at the table: I've done it before. I was a military wife for over 20 years, and I've been alone on my favorite holiday more than once. 

The first time I was 23 and we were stationed at Robins AFB in Georgia, living in a duplex in base housing. It was our first year there, and we'd been there less than a year. I don't remember where LtColEx was -- England, maybe Iceland or Alaska. He was a navigator on a KC-135 refueling plane, so he flew all over the world and was sometimes TDY (temporary duty) for weeks or months at a time. We couldn't afford for me to fly to Iowa, and I didn't want to make the long drive alone. So I stayed home alone. 

And it wasn't so bad. My overtly Christian neighbors across the street brought over a plate from their dinner for me. Bless them. They didn't approve of me. I blasted Led Zeppelin from the speakers in our little white Chevette when I washed it in the driveway; they blasted fiery sermons back, hoping to save unsuspecting passersby or better yet, me. I was immune, but I accepted the plate of turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and dressing with gratitude, and they safely discharged their Christian duty.

Later I went next door and ate dinner with our friends Sharon and Dave, who shared bedroom walls with us. They had made turkey with all the trimmings too, and I was even invited to eat at their table. It was just the three of us, and we had a lovely low-key dinner.  I saved the other plate for the next day.

The next year LtColEx was home, only he wasn't home. He was sitting alert at the  alert facility near the airfield on the other side of the base. Alert means just what it sounds like: Air Force fliers standing ready in case they need to take off quickly and go drop a bomb on something. Every three weeks if they weren't TDY the flyers had to live together in a little dorm-like facility so they could stay close to the four B-52 bombers and four KC-135 refuelers that sat on a special runway inside a second security gate. There was a family visitation center nearby with a large gathering space, a kitchen with a microwave, and three small private rooms with a couch and a TV in two of them. In the evenings the flyers would meet their wives and kids, if they had them, to spend a few hours together.

That year I cooked our turkey dinner at home and transported it to the family center in our big wooden picnic basket that had been a wedding gift. We got lucky that night and arrived in time to get one of the rooms with a TV, where we ate our dinner and watched one of three fuzzy channels and were glad we were together.

The next year we were both home, and I made the turkey dinner for us and for Dave, who was TDY and staying in the officer's quarters that year. He and Sharon had gotten orders to another base earlier in the year. We also hosted one of the first women to navigate the KC-135s. She arrived two hours late so the turkey was dry and the mashed potatoes were cold, but we still enjoyed our Thanksgiving, because we were together.

I've got decades of Thanksgivings under my belt now. The kids and I spent a couple of them without LtColEx, because he was in Korea or somewhere else. For years my little brother came every year and always made the gravy, which is my nemesis.  Now he lives 700 miles away, and he has his own Thanksgiving dinner with his close friends. I've always invited people to be with us if I could, and some came year after year, and then for various reasons were replaced by other friends. Often I'll post an invitation on Facebook for anybody who doesn't have a place to go just to keep the "giving" in Thanksgiving.

Also, I love feeding people, and I love feeding people a big traditional turkey dinner. I've done it so often the menu rarely changes: roast turkey, bread sage stuffing (I tried a delicious wild rice with dried apricots stuffing one time and my kids threatened mutiny if I did it again), mashed potatoes, gravy that doesn't set up until after dinner because now I have to make it myself, green beans with bacon and almonds, sweet potato casserole with apples and marshmallows, homemade cranberry sauce, Grandma Bolton's secret-recipe rolls, fresh pumpkin pie and dark chocolate bourbon pecan pie with homemade whipped cream. (Cool Whip is not allowed in my house. Don't even try. That shit isn't real food.)

Some of my best holiday memories come not from Christmas, but from Thanksgiving. The year I killed my own turkey and she was so long (not balled up like a store-bought turkey), she kicked the lid off the roaster and I had to put a 10-pound weight on it to hold the lid down. The year I started the oven on fire and almost burned up the bread and the pies. The year Colorado's husband-at-the-time stood out in the kitchen after the dishes were done and the rest of us had gone to the living room and ate all the turkey leftovers. We got rid of him. Jerk. The first Thanksgiving after LtColEx moved out and my sister and  brother flew in from Iowa and Minneapolis. I upped my game and made homemade butter while they sat at  my kitchen bar and we talked and drank wine. When it was finally done we spread it on homemade bread, so eager to try it, and it tasted .... just like butter. Any butter. Fucking Kroger butter. The year one annual guest announced three times that she'd rather get Chinese food and watch a movie than do Thanksgiving dinner the next year. I had to physically restrain Colorado. We lost her in a divorce. Buh bye. The year I made the regular turkey and a Tofurkey because I was a vegetarian, and the Tofurkey was so bad even the dog wouldn't touch it. Who knew tofu isn't meat? Three years ago when I went home to Iowa for my mom's big 80th birthday party, and we turned around the next day and had Thanksgiving together on Sunday, because that's when she liked to do her dinner so everybody could make it. Except me. I hadn't been home for Thanksgiving in decades. We didn't know it would be her last Thanksgiving as we ate our smoked turkey and my brother's good gravy. I could go on, but you probably have your own memories.

And what about Thanksgiving 2020? What will we say about Thanksgiving when we look back on this year? I'm not sure yet how it will go, but here's what I expect.

Plan A. Even though I'm not inviting anybody over, I will get a turkey and  roast it in my roaster. And then after I take the meat off that bird, I'll probably  put it back in the roaster and make some soup stock. Or maybe I won't. I won't feel guilty if I don't. I'll make the mashed potatoes and gravy, the green beans, some sour dough rolls, a fresh pumpkin pie, and maybe even a wild rice stuffing with dried apricots. I probably won't make the sweet potatoes or the cranberry sauce, because the two of us can only eat so much. Coraline and I will enjoy our dinner, because it will be delicious. Maybe we'll video chat with family and friends throughout the day. Maybe we'll watch a movie that we have to pay for. We'll still stuff ourselves like any other Thanksgiving and then we'll take the dog for a walk so we can eat more later.

I'll find out if the single guys who live on either side of me are home and I'll take them a plate and tell them next year I'll expect them at my dinner table. 

We will not go inside anybody else's house, and we'll feel fine, because we're keeping ourselves and our loved ones safe. And because we still have blessings to count. And we'll have tons of left-overs!

Plan B. My son Drake and my daughter-in-law Montana have a big yard -- almost an acre. If the weather is nice, we might bring our dinners together and eat outside, socially distanced, masked when we need to. Plan B is looking less likely as the COVID numbers skyrocket here in Ohio though. Our governor can't find his balls to do anything more than urge us to wear masks and weakly enforce a curfew for the fucktards who insist on partying in bars, but the board of health in my county has issued a stay-at-home advisory, which we are going to follow.

Also, Montana is an ER nurse, and as the COVID beds are now all full, the ER staff are taking care of more and more COVID patients. We'll judge the safety of an outdoor dinner next week. We don't want our 2020 Thanksgiving memory to be .... well, you know.

Here's one thing I know: We can all get through a Thanksgiving, and even a Christmas, either alone or with only the people we live with. We can. I've done it. We may be sad, but sad is better than dead or damaged for life. Feelings are temporary. COVID too often is not.

Oh, I forgot about Plan C. Once I can safely do it, I'm going to have the biggest Thanksgiving dinner ever and I'm going to fill my house and my porches and my yard with people eating and giving thanks. I don't care if I do it in July or September or April. I will reclaim Thanksgiving from 2020 and I will make many more Thanksgiving memories to hold in my heart.

Please stay safe and well as we roll into what will be an unusual and difficult holiday season, my friends. We can do this.

Someone to hold her hand ... always

 

Her 5th deviled egg 

I got some rare good news today. I can't write about that, so I want instead to share one of my favorite posts about my 9-year-old granddaughter, Coraline. One good thing that happened in 2020 is that I got official custody of her, something we both wanted a lot. When she used to ask why she lived with me, I'd tell her it was because we have a special relationship, and I think this post from 2013 shows just how special.

My daughter Elvira brought over my granddaughter Coraline, who turned 2 last week (and insists she's 5), about noon today to spend the day and the night. We had a busy day. We started by making deviled eggs for lunch. I keep up a running commentary as I cook or make food with Coraline now. It's like I've got my own Food Network show, and she's the only one in the studio audience. "And now we finish with just a sprinkle of smoked paprika to complement the tang of the mustard and the creaminess of the eggs...."

After lunch we threw the ball for Kohl, the granddog, watered the tomatoes, read a bunch of books, sat on the potty a dozen times both with and without success, and took a nap. The nap was for my benefit.

Then we headed over to a local botanical garden that has a big, creative play area for kids with lots of water features, sand boxes, fairy houses, caves, edible plants, and bees. We spent several hours there exploring and discovering things like snails and pale blue dragonflies and sensitive plants.

Back home we got into dry clothes, grilled some chicken and corn on the cob for dinner, and then took Kohl for a long walk as dusk fell, talking about the meaning of red and yellow and green lights, and when to walk and when to wait. A big bowl of homemade yogurt with blueberries, an apple, and about 30 books later, it was 11:30 and Coraline was fighting sleep. She missed her mommy, and wasn't ready for the day to end.

She didn't want to be held or rocked, so she tossed and rolled on my bed trying to get comfortable as I sang to her. Finally I persuaded her to lie still, close her eyes and just hold my hand as I sang the same song over and over.

Like a ship in the harbor,

Like a mother and child,

Like a light in the darkness

I'll hold you a while.

We'll rock on the water,

And I'll cradle you deep,

And hold you while fairies

Sing you to sleep.

As her muscles relaxed and her breathing slowed, I lay on my side facing her, her tiny hand curled around my fingers, and watched her give in to her dreams. And as I did, I saw superimposed over her small arm the arm of a much older woman -- a woman even older than I am. The arm of the woman she will be decades from now.

I thought of the times she had trusted my hands just today -- the many times when she reached out without looking as she navigated a long, man-made stream studded with rocks, knowing my hand would be there for her to grasp so she wouldn't fall; when she rested her head in my hand as I lathered up her hair and sprayed it clean over the kitchen sink; when she touched the hot, foil-wrapped corn after I told her it was hot, and I grabbed her hand and held it to a cool dishcloth to dissipate the pain; when I lifted her over a toilet that seems big enough to swallow her up because she likes using my potty ... when she fell asleep missing her mom and sleeping in my big bed instead of her own.

And I offered up a prayer to whomever may or may not be listening for that woman of the future. I prayed that she would remember the feeling of someone holding her hand and loving her as completely and fiercely as is humanly possible -- because I do, just like I have loved her mother and her uncle.

I prayed that all the nights she falls asleep snuggled up to her mommy's breast or curled up next to her daddy's side or holding my hand while I sing to her will stay with her like a warm, soft invisible cloak that she can fold around herself whenever she needs comfort, even after her arms are mottled with age spots and her skin has grown thin and wrinkled, and my ashes have long since been spread in someone's garden ... or lost if I know my kids.

That, I think, would be more important than knowing how to make deviled eggs and studying the mating habits of dragonflies, learning to pee on a toilet and that yellow means "be careful."

Although those things are certainly important too.

Finding my inner handypenis

 

I just had to check in and see how everybody's doing. Last week was a big week. Yuge. Nobody's ever seen one this huge. I have to admit I was feeling some PTSD on election Tuesday stemming from the 2016 election night horror show. I was irritable, unfocused, fearful even, after weeks of grinding tension. Like a lot of you, I suspect. 2020 has been unkind and I had no reason to believe it was going to change.

But as the week went by, something happened. The weather changed from chilly and rainy to dry and warm. The autumn trees cast a warm pink and yellow glow over our street. The tide started to turn blue in the days after the election. And Thursday I woke up and felt like a dark cloud had been lifted off my head. A heavy dark cloud. I felt like getting to work.

Toward the end of October I had signed up for a race called Run for Ruth--We Dissent* with my daughter-in-law Dakota. Crazy as it was this close to winter, we committed to riding (running, walking, skating) 87 miles by the end of January, 2021. Coraline and I loaded up our bikes and rode along the Stillwater River Thursday, leaves crunching under our tires, smiling and saying "hi" to the walkers. We weren't the only ones who felt more relaxed. Two weeks ago people walked with their heads down and often didn't make eye contact. Now they seemed eager to greet us as we blew past. We got in 8.5 miles, which isn't far for me, but was a pretty good ride for a 9-year-old.

The next day we went out again with Dakota, my 3-year-old grandson Danger, and Dakota's mom, Red. This time we rode along fields and farms and through a small pretty midwestern town until we got to a park. Dakota stopped there with the kids while Redma and I rode on. About a mile and a half down the path, Redma decided to stop and call a friend. I rode on by myself past large cornfields that had been recently harvested. I passed a few people, mostly walkers. One old man was walking a bike at a jog that was slower than most people walk. I kept my eyes open for deer. The last time we rode that path a buck with an impressive rack ran across the path from out of the woods just 50 yards ahead of us. I have no desire to find out who would survive a collision between my road bike and a deer.

All in all, I got in 16 miles that day, about half of them at a good, hard pace. Not that far compared to how I used to ride, but the longest ride of this year. I'm up to 38.25 miles, and I think I can finish those last 50 miles in plenty of time.

I felt so energized our rides and the results of the election I got busy on several outside projects I've needed to do for months (many months). First I painted our old frame swing grape purple. I've had that swing for at least 15 years and I've moved it twice. The awning it came with rusted off long ago. Coraline uses it for gymnastics and we spend hours sitting out there reading and talking, playing music. It was getting pretty shabby though, the gray metal rusting in places. I've meant to paint it for .... well, longer than I care to admit. Two cans of spray paint later it's finally done and it looks just as quirky and "old hippy lives here" as I hoped it would. 

After that I got up on my big ladder and filled in a long gap between my side porch and the brick wall where a bat likes to roost and poop. Bats have gotten into the house several times over the 7 years I've lived here -- OK, if I'm honest it's probably a dozen times now. The last time my fierce  white cat Gandalf brought the bat down out of the air in the middle of the night and I found myself crawling naked through bat pee in my closet trying to save it. Did I not write about that? I guess not. It's funny now.

I asked several handypenises to help me figure out how the bats were getting in, but none of them could get the job done. What's a vagina to do? Well, find her inner penis, that's what. And I think I finally got that problem licked.

I bought caulk (no pun intended) and some of that ugly foam stuff that turns orange and looks like a disease, hoping to fill the gap with one or both. Turned out the gap was too wide for the caulk (nope, not going there) and the foam stuff wouldn't come out of the can after the first brief spray (nope). Worthless shit. Now what?

I searched my garage for answers. Screen? Couldn't find it, although I know it's there. Chicken wire? The holes are too big and besides that I don't want my house to look like a barn. Just as I was about to give up I noticed an old green eggshell sleeping pad someone had left in my garage. And I thought why not cut that into strips and stuff them into the gap? Sure enough. It worked and it hardly even shows. Fingers crossed the bats stay outside where they belong.

Today after Coraline and I did our writing/schoolwork sessions, I got the wooden steps scrubbed down with some kind of really strong deck cleaner so I can stain and seal them tomorrow. I'm also going to sand down some areas on the porch floors and get them repainted. After that I've got some dry rot to dig out and refill and paint. After that, I'm painting the cellar doors and filling in the gaps in the concrete stairs to the front porch and then .... who knows? Maybe I'll figure out how to put some new siding on my garage. My handypenis is pumped and ready to go!

I'm not dicking around here, people! I was going to pay someone to do most of this work, but I couldn't find anyone to do it and the custody/visitation lawsuit I've mentioned has cost way more than I paid for my Honda Odyssey, so I did what I had to do. I called up my own penis and I got to work.

Yes, I do still have jobs I need to pay a real handypenis to do, but I haven't felt this energized since we shut down for COVID in March. Maybe since the election four years ago. I hope the feeling lasts, because this old house needs some lovin' and it looks like we're going to be sheltering in here for a while.

How about you? How are you doing? Feeling better since the erection election? Dreading winter and wondering how to manage the holiday? Enjoying the last warm days of fall?

* If you're looking for a challenge it's not to late to sign up for Run for Ruth -- We Dissent. Just click on the link. It costs $35, but you get a t-shirt and some other swag. And some exercise. If you want to join my team, send me an email and I'll give you the name. Wearing pearls while you ride or run is optional.

Stay safe, my friends. I don't want to lose any of you.

Love, Coraline

Hope in a time of waiting

 

Apparently I just can't quit this place. I'm at my NaNoWriMo writing space with my notes and my intentions (5585 words so far!), but I have to get something off my chest before I can buckle down. The election is on-going. If we thought we'd have relief after Election Day, we were deluding ourselves.

About midnight, I posted this on my Facebook: "Tonight is one of those nights when it's hard to be alone. So glad Dakota [my daughter-in-law] called me on her way home from work for a long talk. Would be nice to be curled up under a blanket with someone watching a movie. That's election night during a pandemic for you. At least I get to choose the movie." I think this was the first election I spent by myself, which wouldn't have been so bad except the PTSD from the 2016 election was hitting me hard, as it was many of my friends who actually care about other people and the planet. I should have gone to bed early but ...

... I didn't go to bed until 3:00, not because I was watching election results. No, I turned off the movie I was watching about 2:00 because I couldn't focus and I thought I might as well get some sleep, and then, instead of going upstairs to bed I picked up my Kindle and started reading a book started playing Subway Surfers. I fled from a fat police officer, ran over the tops of trains and dodged others, rolled and jumped over blockades, and collected coins for an hour or longer, utterly stupified and disconnected from all things political. This could become an addiction.

As I write this morning, the votes are being tallied. Trump gave what amounted to an acceptance speech in the middle of the night. I wasn't watching him though; I was dodging trains and collecting coins and trying to figure out what it meant when my shoes got bouncy. When I finally thought I could sleep, I went to bed, read my book for a short time and actually did fall asleep to the sound of pink noise, courtesy of Alexa ...

... Only to be awakened yet again by the guy who is living with my next door neighbor, mostly in his garage where he works on a loud motorcycle that he revs and revs and revs at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes he rides it down the sidewalk and leaves it running out there. Did I mention it's loud? Really loud? Fuck that shit.

And then there were the dreams. Jesus, save me from the dreams on election night 2020.

I woke up feeling heavy, sluggish, like my nerves are on the outside of my body and any touch or sound sets off an alarm. I yelled at my 9-year-old granddaughter Coraline for not picking up her dirty socks off the dining room floor. The same socks I told her to pick up yesterday morning. That was well deserved, I think, but she's not whom I really want to yell at.

I need some hope and in spite of the reassurances of the pundits both left and right (et tu, Fox News?) that the election isn't over and Trump isn't winning, hope is hard to find.

And so I look to the children -- or child, in this case -- and I share with you another blog post, one Coraline wrote on her private blog. I hope it gives you hope too. And I hope, like me, you voted for the world she wants to live in, not the one we should leave in the past.

   Dear man in the pickup truck at the food drive who said all lives matter,

So, Hello Mr. Guy at the food drive, how are you?. Never mind. Remember that time when you pulled up in your black pickup truck with fake Trump 2020 money in the front window? And we where in our car, with our masks on, I had om my BLM mask on, my grandma with her purple one on? And you did not have a mask on. You and my grandma talked for a good 5 minutes, and while you where driving away you said,

" All lives matter, honey,"

Good, because this is what I have to say about that.

   First of all, EWW. Don't call a little girl who you know Nothing about honey. Its creepy. Second, if all lives matter, why do you have a problem with Black lives matter? Hmm? Whats' that? You are just saying that because your racist, sexist, homophobic and trying to hide it? I thought so. Herse what your trying to say. All lives matter, but women are nasty. All lives matter, but Black people are dangerous. All lives matter but immigrants are being kept in concentration camps.  All lives matter but being LGBTQIA+ is a sin.  All lives matter but all Muslims are terrorists. All lives matter doesn't mean you can chose when they matter! Third of all, I was sitting there in my BLM mask that my friend Layla gave me. And no, I'm not black. But the reason I'm righting this here at the dining room table, is because none of us are free, until all of us are free. When Layla gave me that mask, I felt like I could speak up for the black community. I want to use my voice. But you did not give me a chance. You said All lives matter and drove away. You are the reason that the black community has to fight for equality that we are suppose to have.  

Thank you for your time,

Coraline.  

Learn from the children.

NaBloPoMo 2020 cancelled

 

If you've been reading here for a while you know I always do National Blog Post Month (NaBloPoMo) in November. Some of you even look forward to reading a blog post every day for that one month of the year. I had every intention of doing it this year too. It would have been my 10th year .... can you see where this is going? 

Last month I went to a virtual 5-day writing conference called Rebirth Your Writing, led by Brevity Magazine editors Allison Williams and Dinty W. Moore. It was the inspiring kick in the butt I needed to buckle down and get said butt into the chair and write. But not to write here on this old blog. I mean seriously write like a professional writer. No distractions. No excuses. That's the first thing that happened.

Then last weekend, my little brother died in Alaska, 4000 miles away. He had been getting sicker and sicker this year, after decades of being sick and in denial. He finally succumbed to alcoholism at age 59. He followed my mom in death by only two years.

We're also in a serious pandemic and some people think we're headed toward a civil war, so none of us know what will happen to us in the near future. Life is precious and seems increasingly precarious.

So instead of writing here, much as I love writing here, I'm going to do NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), which means I've made a commitment to write 50,000 words in November. Not 50,000 words of blog posts, but 50,000 words of what will become my book. I do love writing these blog posts, but I'm not a blogger who gets lots of comments and I don't write posts that many people tend to share, so this is a hobby at best. I need to focus on making writing -- not just teaching writing -- my profession. I need to stop giving it away here, in other words.

Some of you are as much to blame as the Rebirthing conference, you know. You've been telling me I should write a book for years now. Decades even. And now I'm making a commitment to doing it. (So promise me you'll buy the fucking book when it comes out, OK?)

It seems kind of crazy, given I'm barely keeping my head above the raging waters of 2020, to make a commitment that's even bigger than publishing a blog post every day. If I don't do it now though, I don't know when I will do it. Life is short -- sometimes shorter than you think. I need to prioritize this dream of mine to write and publish a book that I've had since I could pick up a pencil in my chubby little hand.

I'll pop in here when I need to get a rant off my chest, but it's best if you don't see much of me this month, here or on Facebook. Wish me luck though. I need a lot of that these days.

Reticulated Radical

Facebook meme, author unknown

But seriously, I would like to know. What is so radical about my political beliefs? What I want from our government? The decency and civility I expect from elected and appointed leaders who are supposed to represent all of us? What part of what I believe is so revolutionary?

Yes, I do yearn for equality for all people. No exceptions. Is that radical?

I also think one billion dollars is more than enough for anybody, and any income over that should be taxed at about 90%. That leaves 100 million dollars a year for the poor billionaire, which I would gladly trade for my annual income if they have a problem with it. Or maybe that extra wealth should be distributed to workers who don't make a billion, or even a million, dollars a year so they can spend it on .... oh, I don't know. Food and housing and an annual vacation. I think every senator and every president should have to live for one year on my annual income before taking office. Just one year. No? Why not? If you want to represent me, get a feel for how I live. How is that radical and not just common sense?

I don't want people to go hungry or to be without decent medical care, including dental and vision. I want good roads, well supported fire and police departments, safe schools with a low teacher/student ratio, accessible upper education (including training in so-called blue-collar trades) that doesn't require taking out student loans that are more than a mortgage, and a bottle of wine a chicken or bowl of beans and quinoa on every table.

I want politicians and religious leaders to stay out of my vagina and my uterus. I want to lower the abortion rate by providing kids with honest, thorough sex education; supporting poor mothers with childcare and food and a decent wage; and opening more Planned Parenthood clinics.

How am I a radical? Honestly, how? I'm practically Jesus's eccentric, lovable aunt.

Do you think I'm radical?

Don't buy wine from a Facebook ad

 

I almost fell for it, my friends. The ubiquitous Facebook ad. I almost completed the order.  I took the fucking quiz. I even gave out my information: email, address, phone number. I was one click away from PayPal with my finger on the button when I noticed. The price for my six bottles of wine was not $29.95 as the ad promised. It was $39.95. I heard the voice of reason in my head, Back away from the cheap wine with the free delivery. It's another scam. Yes, even at $39.95 it's a reasonable price for 6 bottles plus free shipping, but that's not the fucking price they said it would be in the ad!

I closed the window.

And then the emails started coming in. Every single day the offer for 6 bottles of wine for $3.33/bottle plus free shipping. I deleted them. And then I got the email from Philip James, who claims to be the founder of the company, and I couldn't resist answering him. I mean, how often do you get to go straight to the office on the top floor without even asking? Here's my letter to Philip James, founder of Firstleaf wines, along with my warning to you: Don't be tempted by the Facebook ads. In fact, add the Facebook Purity extension to your Chrome browser and you'll never have to see another Facebook ad again.

Here's the thing, Philip James. I went to your site from Facebook where your ad offered 6 bottles of wine for $29.95. I went through the entire quiz, but when I got to the checkout, I was going to be charged $39.95, a price that, while fair, certainly isn't what was advertised. That extra $10 caused my trust in your company, and I suppose in you, Philip James, to plummet. I returned to Facebook where I commented on my experience. Someone from Firstleaf responded a couple of days later and told me I should contact your customer service. I don't think that's really my responsibility, do you, Philip James? I suspect a good number of people just went ahead and paid $10 more, either because they didn't remember what the cost was supposed to be or because they didn't notice the price difference, or because of reasons I'm not willing to worry about myself. Good for you if you can squeeze 10 extra dollars from unsuspecting and trusting new customers. Excellent scam, and then they'll find themselves subscribed to a much more expensive subscription service as well. I see what you're doing there.

I am not one of those customers though. I do not trust you now. I do not believe you will sell me 6 bottles of wine for $3.33/bottle and live up to your guarantee that I will like them or you will .... I don't know. Refund my three bucks and change? Send me a different brand and try again? I didn't read the fine print. I don't for a minute believe in your promises. I wish I did. I do love my wine. A smooth, chilled buttery Chardonnay paired with a bag of Lays potato chips can make me absolutely giddy. Almost better than sex, am I right? Although why choose? I even write about my love of wine on my blog in posts titled "If we were sharing a bottle of wine ...." During the pandemic, several of my more loving friends have dropped off a bottle or two of Chardonnay on my front porch because they would hate for me to run out. Alas, the pity is that I have run out -- hence my stupid foray to your website from Facebook. Never trust a Facebook ad, Philip James. Learn from my experience. I can live without wine much easier than I can live with being scammed though. I adore it, but I'm not married to it.

So much as I would love to pay you $3.33/bottle for 6 bottles of wine and find them eventually delivered for free to my front door -- Sweet Jesus who made the water into wine, that is a first-world luxury! -- something doesn't smell quite right here. This is my long way of telling you I'm going to have to put a cork into our relationship, in spite of your tempting offers.

Cheers,

Reticula

And that, my friends, is that. I'll never learn if Philip James, founder of Firstleaf, did indeed choose the most delectable $3.33 bottles of wine I've ever gulped sipped. I'll never answer my door and sign for those six bottles of freely shipped wine and chill one down to drink with a bowl of buttered popcorn on my porch some cool early fall eve, possible with a socially distanced friend. I am, in fact, drinking water and looking forward to watching my boyfriend James Spader in an episode of Blacklist after I hit publish on this post, which will probably be about as exciting as it gets around here for a while.

How about you? Any Facebook ad experiences? Ever fall for a ModCloth ad? Some exciting new tool that costs 1/3 the price on Amazon? Ever tried to get a decent color of Overtone, only to find out all the good colors are always sold out? What's your Facebook ad story?

Maybe I should buy my own Facebook ad. I'll offer to write angry letters to Facebook scammers for .... let's start at $25 for the first letter and $40 after that for the monthly epistolary subscription. I think I've found my niche.

Have typewriter, will rant.

You know you want it. So will your friends and relatives. Think ahead. Christmas is coming and you won't even have to put on your mask and leave your house. I'll run a special special just for readers. You are welcome. Cheers. XOXO

The weight of COVID-19

I'm so jealous of people in movies and on TV shows. They go to bars and sit close on bar stools. They go on cruises and cross-country trips. They eat in restaurants and choose how their steaks are cooked and sample the wine. They cuddle up with each other on the couch, and even though I can literally remember the exact day I last did that with someone other than Coraline (my 9-year-old granddaughter who lives with me), I can barely remember how it feels. I know I will never do it again with that person, but I really hope I will do it with someone again some day. They meet new lovers and have one-night stands, and honestly, I haven't done that in literally decades, a one-night stand, but I still want the fucking option, because now I wish I'd done it more often. (OK, I also wish I could guarantee the sex would be at the very least acceptable, and at the best good, and we all know that's not usually true for women, and that's why I didn't do it often, but I digress .... except to say, I suppose it could happen and now I'll never know.) And they have family dinners around a big table where they laugh and fight and maybe they drink too much, but they always compliment the cook. They put their heads together when they laugh, and they touch each others hands tenderly. They ride in cars together. And, oh my god, they hug. And kiss. I can hardly bear to watch two people sharing a first kiss. I mean, it was hard enough before, but at least it was a possibility before.

When I think of all the times I've taken spontaneous physical closeness for granted ... I wonder if I ever will again. Assuming, of course, I will ever experience it again.

In real life I see people acting like the pandemic doesn't exist and I think, fuck it. Why should I give up some of the best human interactions when odds say I won't get that sick even if I get it. I'm a woman. I have type O blood. I'm in pretty good shape, and I'm not that far into the dangerous age group. Yes, I could stand to lose some weight, but I don't have any health issues. Why shouldn't I hug my 2-year-old grandson who cries because he can't come into my house and hang out with me? We miss snuggling up on the couch, reading books and watching Youtube videos of trains. Why shouldn't I hug my son when I see him? Why shouldn't I have a big karaoke party like I do every other summer, with the windows open and the wine flowing, and the songs sung until the wee hours of the next morning? I could be dead in 2 months anyway, because Coraline is in a situation with people who refuse to social distance, and I can't prevent it. Will I die having never hugged my baby grandson again? Or my son? Or my close friends, who are my chosen family?

My friend Jay told me tonight about a former colleague who's been on a ventilator since some time in July. He recently succumbed to the virus. He was 49 years old. What would he have given for one more hug from his wife or husband, if he had one? Or his kids? His mother? And if more people had taken this seriously months ago, would he still be alive? If other people weren't so fucking selfish, would he still be alive?

That's what I come back to every time I have the urge to say, "Fuck this shit. I'm going to live my life. We're all going to die anyway..." I come back to all the people who wouldn't be dead now, and who wouldn't be permanently disabled or chronically ill, if we'd had leadership who followed the protocols that kept us safe from other deadly incurable viruses, like Ebola. I'll bet if you live in the US you don't know anybody who died from Ebola. If all of us had followed those protocols for COVID-19 and done our duty as good citizens of the country, the world, and put up with just a couple of months of sheltering in ... 

But we didn't. And I can't take risks that might have disastrous consequences for my family and friends just because I miss life as it was. I'm not that selfish. Or maybe I'm just not a sociopath. I can't keep all of them safe .... actually, as of this week I can't keep any of them safe. But I can do everything I can to make myself safe around them and to keep myself safe, because there are people who depend on me and even who care if I'm OK.

As for the people who won't, fuck them. And if it's you, fuck you. Safety needs are the second tier on Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Way below, and thus more important than, eating at a restaurant and drinking beer at a bar. Way below graduation parties and birthday parties and sports and packing into elevators.

I hope I'm preaching to the choir here. I hope you're pumping your fist in agreement and wishing you could hug me, but choosing not to. I hope you're able to keep yourself and your family safe, because I know a lot of people have to work among selfish sociopaths who refuse to cover their snotty noses. (I had to go to court twice last week, and I saw a lot of people showing their stupid noses and refusing to cover their ugly faces.) And I know a lot of you can't keep your children home and safe for various reasons. It's really hard when you want to protect them and you can't.

None of this is easy. But if you're just choosing not to do the best you can because you can't be inconvenienced by a deadly virus, then fuck you. Put on a mask and grow the fuck up. Stay 6 feet apart and grow the fuck up. If my 9-year-old granddaughter can do it, because she doesn't want to make one of her friends or family members sick, so can you.

That was an entire digression. I'm bringing it back. Has anybody else struggled with watching people on TV and in movies? Have you shouted at the screen, "Back up! Six feet! Where's your fucking mask, you moron? People are going to die because of you!" I mean, can anybody even enjoy porn any more? This fucking virus has ruined everything!

Stay safe and stay well, my friends.

Monday, Monday. Can't trust that day...

Monday was a rough day. I was bullied and I was lied about on Monday. And I can't write the story here, so I'll talk about the other side of Monday. People who don't owe me a thing blessed me with incredible love and support on Monday.

My daughter-in-law Dakota, who is simply the best daughter-in-law ever, took Coraline and my 2-year-old grandson Cassius Danger (whom I haven't even hugged since March) on a socially distanced (because she cares about Coraline) hike while I was in court getting custody. And Coraline didn't worry so much for a while, because she was having a good time exploring an abandoned house and hiking in the woods with people she loves and who love her and have always been there for her. And who care enough about her to socially distance no matter how hard it is to not give a worried little girl a hug and a snuggle. It was more than enough.

Shortly after we got home a former student who's from Moldova stopped by to pick up some sweet corn I was selling for a farmer I know (another story), and she brought Coraline and me delicious Russian chocolates and oatmeal cookies. I didn't even know there was a Russian grocery here, but there is and once it's safe, she's going to go there with me and tell me about Russian food.

I picked up the mail and there was a package from another friend from back in the olden days when I homeschooled my kids and we had just discovered the internet (who remembers Prodigy and AOL?). She sent me 4 ceramic affirmation stones and a money order to help pay for a used Trek bicycle I bought Coraline last week. I knew she was sending something, because she told me to expect a package, but I didn't expect such generosity. Yeah, I cried. I'm a sap.

Other friends sent me texts and messages and checked in on me to make sure I was OK. I'm not, but their support makes me feel not so alone. Once I got Coraline to bed, I did an hour of yoga and meditation opened a bottle of wine my friend Maria gave me for my birthday last month and a bag of Clancy's potato chips Dakota dropped off the other day (because I still haven't been to the grocery store since March) and watched a documentary about buskers. I've always wanted to busk, but I'm not that good. I don't think people would toss their coins and bills in my guitar case unless maybe they wanted me to stop playing. I'm reading a book about a guy who busks with a manual typewriter and writes a poem for anybody who needs one and they give him what they can or what they think it's worth. Maybe I need to busk with a typewriter instead of a guitar. I digress ....

I want to be able to write specifically about what's happening, but I don't dare. And that pisses me off because it's my story and as Anne Lamott says

I'm sorry, Anne Lamott. I don't have the courage -- or maybe the stupidity -- to tell this story while it's happening. But someday. Someday I will just for myself. Just to keep the record straight for those who wonder.

And in the meantime I will simply say that being the hero in a story doesn't mean you win like it does in the movies and books. Real life is 20fucking20 and I wouldn't get through it if I didn't have these blessings to count. These many blessings. I'm going to have to work hard to pay all this forward. I look forward to finding those opportunities though.

Do you have stories you can't tell? You can tell them to me. I can't tell all of mine -- nobody does -- but I can listen. One thing 2020 has taken away is the random encounter with strangers who have a story to tell, at least for people like me who are practicing safe living.

One final thought: Heroes wear masks. Heroes keep the rest of us safe by social distancing. Heroes know when to put others before themselves. Be a hero, even if heroes don't always win.

Oh for a road trip

Maybe I need to stop watching TV. I keep seeing things on TV that make me want to do those things and I can't because fucking COVID. Like I was watching In the Dark, which I think if you like reading this blog you would like because it's dark and sarcastic and it makes you want to drink. But in the 4th episode Murphy, the blind (not in real life) star of the show goes on a road trip. Oh, how I love a road trip. And she gets stuck in a bathroom stall and has to crawl under the door of the stall, which is a lot scarier when you're blind I would imagine, but is massively scarier to consider during fucking COVID. Otherwise it would just make a funny story, but not now. And then they actually stop at a diner. And I could smell the old grease and coffee and pancake syrup and the ghost of cigarette smoke and hear the ting of forks against plates and the overlapping voices of people telling their stories. And I could just taste a big bite of juicy burger with lettuce and tomato and ketchup and mustard and mayo and some fat greasy fries dipped in more ketchup and fuck COVID I was there with the backs of my thighs stuck to the red plastic bench seat and the waitress (server ... whatever) asking me if I wanted more coffee. Only I wasn't there and I won't be there for a long time. And now I'm thinking about eating a chocolate malted milk shake with a long spoon, and they leave the extra in the metal cup so you don't waste any, and a piece of pie with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream. God I'm full.

But that's from a glass of wine and a bowl of wavy potato chips, which I ate alone on my couch as I watched Murphy on her road trip and wished I'd gone on more myself when I had the chance. And I'm not even going to start in on the sex ....

What do you miss?

Week 31: 2020

Last Saturday, a week ago, I got together with 5 friends at a park, more than socially distanced, to celebrate my and Chuck's birthdays. Chuck said something about missing my blog, and I said I think all the time about writing, but I just can't find that space I used to be in where I wrote about vaginas and dildos and cookies and various funny human foibles. I can't find my voice in this new world, and I don't want to burden people with what's coming out of me when I try to write. And he said he gets it. We all feel exhausted and unnerved and angry and lonely and it's hard to focus. Everything seems too serious, and it's not just the pandemic. The seriousness started almost 4 years ago. I don't have much funniness in me, although I do find moments of joy and delight. I also have lots of bitter. Lots of depressed. Lots of indignation and .... well, rage. Hopelessness even. And now, since March, I summon Dolores, my muse, sit down here to write, intending to focus on the positive things that happen, that keep me going, that somebody might want to read about, and all I get is about a paragraph before I just can't go on, usually because I can't stay on topic or another shoe drops on my head or it turns into a political rant, and I don't know about you but I'm fucking sick of it all. So I've got a bunch of unpublished posts that are about a paragraph long and a lot built up inside me that I suspect nobody wants to read because you've all got your own shit going on, but I need to write and this is my blog so I'm going with what I've got.

A lot of shit has happened this year. It would be a rough year even without a pandemic. It would be a rough year even without Trump. I grab on to any bright spots and clutch them like they're a piece of driftwood and I just fell off the Titanic. From a terribly unjust and expensive custody suit to a surgery to remove my 5 front teeth (because of a fall into a brick hearth 20 years ago) to big old house issues (I need about 5 handy-penii) to being robbed to painful breaks in several relationships to lost jobs and all that goes with a pandemic ... I feel like I'm in a crazy Jim Carrey movie that just won't fucking end. Like this can't actually be real life. I understand why the stakes have to get so high for characters in movies, but even movies eventually resolve and end and our hero gets a fucking break.

This week has been .... I'm not going to list everything. It's too much. We've all got problems. At least I'm not still teaching .... Wait. OK, that's not true. I'm going to be homeschooling Coraline this year. That was decided this week. No biggie. Did it for 12 years with my own kids. Not during a pandemic. Not as a single parent. It's OK though. She's 9 years old now and we'll have fun. She's always busy learning and experimenting. Then again it's not really OK, because we love her school and don't want her to lose her place there, and her community, but not much is under my control. All of my side gigs have slipped off the side and disappeared so I'll have the time. (Ray of sunshine: One of my employers is still paying me half what I was making. I'm extremely grateful. See? There are some bright spots. I'll highlight those for you.)

This week though. What a fucking week. First, my dog Crow has had a nasty ass for weeks now. I took him to a walk-in vet to get his anal glands expressed, because of the nasty, smelly discharge that was leaking out of his asshole, and the tech ruptured one of the glands. After 3 weeks of antibiotics and continued ass-leaking and hosing off his asshole out in the back yard, I took him to another vet who prescribed a different antibiotic. Finally it's working (fingers crossed) and $350 later Crow's stinky leaky asshole is .... well, not as leaky as it was. If you've never smelled what comes out of a dog's anal glands, count yourself among the lucky. It's pretty much a biological weapon.

On the way home from the second vet's office, I was stopped at a red light when my engine revved just a bit. I had my foot on the brake so my van didn't jump forward. In fact, when it was time to go, it didn't go at all. It just idled along at about 5 mph no matter how hard I pushed the pedal. The long line of cars behind me went around when I turned on my flashers and nobody honked at me or flipped me off. I pulled into a parking lot, turned my van off and on, and it worked fine, other than running a little rough. I made an appointment with Darryl. "Should take an hour, two at the most," he said. "It needs a tune-up at the very least. Bring it in tomorrow."

Before I even got up the next day, my lawyer's office called. He wanted to make an appointment for a phone consult. He makes more in an 8-hour day than I do in a month. But OK. I made the appointment and started worrying about the custody trial coming up the middle of August. I don't dare write publicly about that, for so many reasons.

And then it was off to Goodyear on a steamy July day. Coraline and I took books and our camp chairs so we could sit in the shade to wait. Not a mask in sight at Goodyear, other than mine, so we certainly weren't going to sit inside in the AC, despite the temperatures in the 90's. We settled in. For 5 hours. Five fucking hours we sat watching the Main Street traffic and reading our books. Fending off panhandlers. Wishing I'd eaten breakfast. Finally my van was done and I paid Darryl his $500 and left.

Next morning I went out to pick up a package off the porch, and a young man who was illegally parked in the turn-around by my van stepped out of his car and yelled, "Hey, is that your van?"

"Yes," I said reluctantly. Maybe even suspiciously. I really hoped he wasn't going to tell me he'd run into my van. Or worse. It had been a short night. My neighbor has a guy living with him who works all night long on a motorcycle. A loud motorcycle. It requires him, apparently, to rev it over and over and over at 11:00, midnight, 1:00 and again at 5:30 in the morning. I sent the nicest message I could muster to my neighbor at 5:40 am and he agreed it was too much and put a stop to it.

"I think your tire is flat," the stranger said. I looked at my van and thanked him. As if I wouldn't have noticed.

Of course it was. That's the second time I've had a flat tire the morning after I had my van in the shop. Of course it was flat. I came inside and put in a request for roadside assistance. I received the follow-up text and went outside to wait. And wait. Finally, after about an hour and a half, I called the company that was supposed to come out. I won't repeat the conversation. The guy was rude. He said they hadn't gotten a call to come to my house. He didn't sound like he wanted my business. I put in another request. When the text came in, it was from the same damn company. I got on the phone to try to talk to a real person.

And I waited some more. After almost 45 minutes on hold, I told a real person I did not want that company and I still needed someone to come out and fix my tire. She cancelled my other requests -- not that anybody was going to come out anyway -- and sent someone else. Someone who was in another county on another job. Fine. Who wouldn't have expected that? He got to my house when he could. He was polite, quick, got the job done. By the time he left, it had been over 4 hours since I put in my first request and I was just glad I hadn't been sitting on the side of the road on a 95-degree day.

By now my amazing daughter-in-law felt so sorry for me, she invited us over for a socially distanced BBQ that evening. I needed to drop off my ruined tire at Goodyear, which is near their house, so off we went. We got there just before they closed, which I guess is good luck if it hadn't taken the entire afternoon to get it fixed. Darryl said the hole was probably too close to the edge of the tire to plug, but he would try. I knew it wasn't in my stars this week to get such a lucky break and started planning for buying a new tire.

Nevertheless dinner was lovely: chicken on the grill, corn from their amazing, prolific garden, caprese salad, mashed potatoes, homemade lemonade, peach ice cream, and excellent company. After we ate, we made concrete stepping stones with butterfly molds and big leaves from their garden. An oasis from the shit storm that had been my week so far. (In case I haven't made my point about this fucking year, see the contrast between their garden and my garden below.)

Their garden.

Sigh.

It was a wonderful evening except that I brought my bad luck with me. One of their pretty chickens flew up out of the pen into the yard and within seconds one of their dogs was on it and killed it. They were going to butcher it and eat it and I'm sure it was tasty, but it was supposed to enjoy a long, egg-laying life before it ended up in the soup pot. Honestly, I'm surprised it wasn't my dog who killed it, but he stopped when I called him off. Him and his stinky ass.

The week kind of went on like that. I'm not going to describe it all. Suffice to say I somehow screwed up making yogurt in my Instant Pot twice, even though I've made yogurt that way many times. We made chocolate pudding and it didn't thicken (so I made it into rice pudding). I couldn't get eggs today at the farmer's market. Shit like that. Annoyances mostly that just seemed to pile up.

I have more. Some of it is too personal though. Too painful and I don't need to spread my own existential crises here like moldy cheese.

I've had too many weeks like this in 2020, but who hasn't? I try to find the bright spots and highlight them in yellow. It's pouring down rain today, which we desperately need. We're in a moderate drought situation here. But I won't even go into my basement to see how much water is pouring in through the walls. I've done everything I can on my property to divert the water from my foundation. It's just one more old-house issue I need to figure out. I'm not sure if every dark cloud has a silver lining or if every silver lining .... yeah, that doesn't work.

Honestly, I do have good things going on in my life, even in these crazy, unsettled times. Friends who come over for socially distanced porch-sitting. My next-door neighbor to the south came over today and helped me change the way-up-high light bulbs on my outside lights. They've been burned out for .... I don't even remember how long. My next-door neighbor to the north plays his guitar and sings for me from his porch sometimes. We have good, deep conversations. Coraline is happily making Tik ToK videos today so I can sit here and write this whiny post. We're hoping President Butt-Hurt doesn't shut Tik Tok down just because hardly anybody went to his stupid rally in Tulsa. Or maybe it's because of this ray of sunshine named Sarah Cooper.




OMG! I just love her face. I want to socially distance porch-sit with her.

It feels good to be writing here again, so I'm going to keep it up, even if I drive all 12 of you away with my whining.

Before I go I'll tell you the last straw for this week though. In the mail today I got a summons for jury duty. I'm supposed to be there just 3 days after the big custody hearing but I have always wanted to perform my duty as a juror! I've been rewatching Boston Legal the past few months and I'm ready. Denny Crane! (Mmmm. Alan Shore.) I'm called to a grand jury though, which can last for 4 months. And did I mention I'm going to be homeschooling Coraline this year? And do I have to mention we're in a pandemic and I don't have childcare, because otherwise she would be in school so ..... yeah. I think I'm going to have to get out of it. It would be a perfect homeschool activity for her to sit and watch, but those cases are often murder cases and it might not be appropriate. Also, the judge probably wouldn't let her in the jury box. If only they were doing Zoom trials.

Sigh.

How's your 2020 going? Any good news out there? Anybody else need to whine? Feel free to fill the comments. I want to know I'm not alone in this mad, mad world.