Barely Contained

Your Friend and Mine

2019-06-19T16:15:00.002-05:00

My best friend worked at a funeral home.

It used to be fun for her and for me to reveal that information--she liked the shock value of it, I think. I kinda did, too. Everybody had questions, and I would sit back and watch her answer matter-of-factly, about things that made people wonder.

Yesterday, I attended a funeral at the place where she worked. Spoiler alert: It was her funeral.

It was a weird day.

I had written some notes to say at the podium, but in the middle of the night, instead of sleeping, I was editing my notes in my head based on my experience at the visitation the day before.

Fucking writers, always shuffling things around.

Turns out I blew it in the presentation, anyway, since...I didn't read the notes while I was standing there--I just sort of glanced at them and winged it. I will blame lack of sleep and grief.

If I tell you what I truly think of how it went, I'm gonna piss somebody off. Maybe a few somebodies.

Ah, what the hell...here goes...

You know those Pinterest wedding projects with the signs that say, "Pick a seat not a side"? This was not that. There were sides, and I got a good long look at what my friend Barb has been going through for the last 25 years. She was peacemaker in the middle of a couple of warring factions, each led by...OK, I'll say it: a couple of stubborn jackasses. Barb was stubborn as hell, too, which is why she never fully caved to either side.

Let me back this up a bit--go back the 20-some years to the time Barb informed her parents that her roommate was actually her girlfriend. They didn't see that coming, and, were not all that happy with her choice of partner. Stubborn Barb said "suck it, this is what I'm doing" and...thus began a two decade long saga of her father basically pretending this was all a phase Barb was going through and not including Barb's partner Kathy in, well, anything, while Kathy and Barb made a life of their own, with friends filling in gaps that might have been filled by Dobbses if they had pulled their heads out of their asses some time before she became gravely ill.

OK, now that I've pissed on the Dobbs clan, let's swing to the other side. Kathy, understandably upset after being rejected by Barb's family, crossed her arms and said "fuck those people." She (Kathy) was also dealing with a lot of deep-seated insecurity that made her hold Barb much closer than she needed to. She played some (not all) of those nasty mental tricks desperate people play to get their lovers to stay. If Barb went to see her family, or went anywhere, really, Kathy was in constant contact (a recent memory: Barb and I attended a concert at a nice dinner club and instead of letting her just go out and have an uncomplicated evening, she was calling her for some bullshit, like "I can't get the dog to eat, you need to come home", and when Barb didn't answer her phone, Kathy called MY phone to try the same ploy via a third person. I let it go to voicemail because screw that--you're a grown up and you can deal with the dog for 2 hours).

Now, could these two sides have come together? With effort, yes. I think they could have. It would have taken work, but I believe if they had made the time to get to know each other, Kathy's confidence would have improved if shown real support, and, Master Dobbs would have seen that Kathy is a good-hearted and sensitive person who means no harm.

Key factor here? One Barbara Kaye Dobbs, queen of the innocent little white lie (for the purposes of placating, only! She was not a liar, she just hated people to be upset or disappointed and would fib a little to keep the peace). This is a woman who, I think, never let her parents know she smoked, just to give you an example of the lengths she would go to keep people from information she thought might upset them. She smoked cigarettes for 30 years and basically pretended she didn't while in the presence of her parents. They went on a family vacation to Costa Rica and they were there for a week. She went for a walk and bought smokes off a lady on the beach cuz she was jonesing and didn't dare bring her own stupid cigarettes with her on vacation. Whatever value there was for her in staying her parent's little girl, she clung to it. She told a lot of those little white lies all over the place, to Kathy, to me, to her boss, to whomever--she genuinely hated disappointing people.

Barb would have had to be planning and plotting aggressive peacemaking maneuvers for at least 5 years early in her and Kathy's relationship to have made the uneasy ceasefire between the two sides that would have eventually led to everyone getting along. She would have had to be the one to do it because she was the center of it all. She would have had to say "screw it" and bring Kathy home with her for Christmas and Thanksgiving, and every other visit, and they would have had to act like a couple in full view of her parents, just like they did at home. She...did not do that. Instead, she placated both sides and let them carry on with their stubborn B.S..

For 20 years.

Pause to enter this important disclaimer: All of this is all just a series of instances of people acting on the information they had available to them at the time and while we can look from the outside and say, "That's messed up," we can't say that we haven't made some stupid human error or done things that, in retrospect, contributed to the strife instead of the solution. I have never been in a same-sex relationship or had to come out to my family. I have never had to make something like that work. I would not be able to say I did my best to have a solid relationship with many members of my immediate family. It's just like that--you don't know, usually, until it's too late.

OK, now jump back ahead to March 2019. Barb is diagnosed with bladder cancer. She's scheduled for surgery to remove her bladder. Kathy is there through all of it, and, with the diagnosis, parents swoop in to support their little girl. The surgery happens, and, it's bad news. The cancer has spread and there is now a...95% chance that she won't make it.

Time to come together.

Barb's siblings take the lead and try to salvage whatever is left of their relationship with Kathy and Barb. Barb hurries up and gets paperwork done indicating Kathy is her medical POA, says she wants to get legally married, and makes all kinds of motions indicating she does not want her family stepping in here, when decisions need to be made. Kathy continues to include them in all meetings and decisions, but, ultimately does whatever Barb wants her to do.

Her father spoke up and said he felt left out. Huh...imagine what that must feel like. Oh, that's right, we don't have to imagine, we can just *ask Kathy*, since Barb's family has left her out of pretty much everything for 20 years.

*sigh*

Rapid disease progression, Barb's brothers hang in there, dad makes visits but also demands, thus irritating Kathy, and then, the inevitable.

Now a funeral to plan.

As I mentioned, my best friend worked at a funeral home. She had the paperwork in order that basically left her father out of the decision-making process for her own funeral--she knew what needed to be done. Now...if she had been legally married to a man instead of living with a woman for 25 years, nobody would have even bothered asking what Barb's father wanted because everyone would have recognized that it's not his place. However...legal next of kin is a hell of a thing in the funeral business. If you don't have the paperwork done, a person who has no business planning your funeral ends up planning your funeral.

A tense meeting occurred at the funeral home with the two stubborn jackasses butting heads, and the paperwork prevailing--thank God, because Barb's wishes were pretty clear.

A week later, the viewing...

I walked in, caught sight of one of my best friends, Chrissy, talking to a family member and stuck with her for a while, looking at the picture boards.

Wow, what a life you lived, Barb. So many friends and so many smiling photos. Hundreds of them. But I was to learn that even the picture boards were segregated. There were the "Family" picture boards and the "Kathy" picture boards. I made appearances on both--grab a meal with the Dobbses in some far flung location and they'll take a picture. Owing to the fact that Barb and I had been living in the same city for the last 8 years, we finally had opportunities to hang out and thus, lots of recent photos of us doing stuff around town.

At the viewing, Kathy was "stationed" at the open casket, greeting people and talking to them about Barb. The family was in the entry-way, greeting people as they walked in, with Dad generally avoiding Kathy. To be fair, Kathy *had* ripped him a new one at the planning meeting--I might not want to hang out with her, either.

(This is the part where I tell you the funny anecdote about how when Barb met Kathy, Barb liked her a lot, right away, but was afraid to tell her because, in her words, she thought Kathy might "punch" her. It's cute in retrospect, but gives you a clearer picture of what a tough broad Kathy is.)

I was very nervous to look at Barb. I remember the shock of seeing my father in a casket and how I pretty much lost it at the sight of him. I expected the same to happen when I saw Barb.

It didn't.

She looked so beautiful, and peaceful. Like a fairy princess waiting to be kissed. She also looked incredibly frail--she had lost a lot of weight, and lying there, she looked closer to 90 years old than 55. But she was lovely. What a comfort.

(Of course, it was Barb's friends and co-workers who prepared her body. Barb had chosen exactly who she wanted to pick her up and do the work. A labor of love, for them.)

Kathy and I talked, cried, hugged, laughed, cried some more, hugged some more, and then I let her go because more people wanted to see Barb. I made my presence known to various family members and then Chrissy and I, with her daughter and my boyfriend in tow, made way to the nearest tavern to hoist a glass for Barb.

The next day...funeral.

Everything was the same as the day before, with the exception of the seating. Now, "Reserved" flags hung over the first two rows in the sections near the podium. Parking lot was overflowing--I ended up parking two blocks away and having a little walk. Dobbs family out front, Kathy's camp in the room with the casket until such time as we had to all come together, then the Dobbs gang sat in their section and Kat's group sat in hers. Kathy said I could sit with her, so I took a seat next to her mom in the front row.

The pastor started with, "We are here to say goodbye to your friend and mine" and, I was struck immediately by how we were sitting in a room full of people who did funerals literally every day of the year, but this one was different. I remember Barb telling me about this pastor years ago, about what a neat guy she thought he was, and there he was at the front of the room, having been picked by her to do this.

Exhale.

She was my friend for 34 years and I felt bad for everyone in that place but me.

I felt that we were lucky to have the chance to tell her we loved her before she was gone--you don't always get that chance. The last thing she and I ever did was hug and say "I love you", in that room in the intensive care. A rare gift. Her brother and her Kathy were with her at the end. What a privilege.

The pastor spoke, songs were sung, Kathy spoke and thanked everyone, I spoke (I have written many eulogies but never once delivered one until now), and one other person spoke. I was somewhat surprised that so few people wanted to talk, but I suppose it's not for everyone.

The service wrapped up and everyone was invited to eat in the family room at the funeral home, but Kathy turned to me and said, "I'm not staying," because to her, that meal was a Dobbs thing, and not for her. She told me to take some flowers home, packed up the guest book and left.

A day has passed and as I reflect on what happened, I know that those two sides will never make peace. The one person who could have made it happen is gone now. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it all OK. I'm sure Barb did, too. These conflicts are not cured by magic, though. Everyone has to want it and everyone has to participate, and that is not likely to happen. The family will have "their" Barb and Kathy will have hers and nobody will admit that they were the same woman. The same complex, wonderful, beautiful, flawed woman. Your friend and mine.

Mundane

2019-05-23T14:14:00.001-05:00

Right now I am imagining my friend Barb and her partner Kathy picking out clothes for her to wear to her own funeral.

I am picturing her making decisions about how she wants the whole thing to go down.

On the one hand...what a gift. To have a bit of time, and have a say in it.

On the other hand...fuck. Who would have thought at the age of 55, this is the shit you have to consider?

She will be leaving the hospital soon and going home, with hospice. Probably going home for the last time, to the little house on 40th that she and Kathy have shared for 20 years. I can see Kathy standing in the living room, with Barb sitting on the sofa. Kathy is holding up shirts and Barb saying "yes" or "no" to them, like it was any other occasion where she had to find something to wear.

That's what's in my head.

Barb knows the funeral business. She worked in it for many years. She knows the people who will care for her body after the life has left it. She knows the medical examiner and the funeral directors and the people who cash the checks. She knows the numbers to call for death certificates and various other paperwork required by law. She knows dumb stuff like, what happens to jewelry if you are cremated, and, if you can wear polyester. (I dunno, and, I dunno why I am even curious...)

The mundane stuff of her job, she is now applying to her life in the most unexpected way.

It was the middle of March when the hospitalizations started. By the middle of June it may be over.

An absolutely stunning time-line. I can't imagine what I would do, if it was me. This is the strength of the dying. The calm.

Everyone's a Critic

2019-05-21T13:52:00.000-05:00

Last night, my friend Kathy called me to tell me that her mate of 25 years, my college roommate and best friend Barb, was inching closer to death.

What started off as a back-ache was eventually diagnosed as bladder cancer. It then metastasized, and spread to internal organs, affecting her kidneys. She went from a 75% chance of surviving the next five years (if her bladder was removed), to a 5% chance. It was inoperable, and the only treatment they could do was chemo, which would only shrink the tumor enough for other symptoms to be suppressed. She would ultimately never be "cured" of the cancer.

At that point, I adopted a motto of, "we won't know until we know." Obviously the odds were against her, but...somebody has to be in the 5%, so...who knows?

In my head, my "math" (completely unscientific and involving no math whatsoever) told me she would not be around to see the next presidential election. I thought, that's long enough for all of us who love her to make sure she knows that we do. It's far from a good scenario, but...how many of us die without having that time to connect with the ones we care about?

Yesterday, they discovered that the cancer had expanded again, this time to her stomach. In addition, there was a small perforation in her small intestine which would make chemotherapy impossible.

I feel like...now we know.

Now we know that she would never catch that much-needed break, medically. Since the cancer was discovered, there has been virtually no good news on that front.

Now is the time when you feel the full brunt of the natural human emotion surrounding death--when you are in the inner circle of a person who is dying. Now is the time when reality strikes and people start to freak out a little.

As normal as it is to freak out, it's never been my reaction.

That's another thing people freak out about.

Ironically, Barb worked in a funeral home right up until she had to stop working. She saw it all the time. She'd say death makes living people crazy--all those questions, from who will pay for the funeral, what will happen at the service, etc. The living feel like they have to duke it out to get what they want out of the deal, and they mostly ignore the wishes of the dead, even if the dead person wrote them down and made them all swear to follow their wishes. As soon as a person dies, it all goes out the window.

Case in point: My husband Jim's father died while we were dating. James Sr, ("Doug" to all of us) had been vocal about his wishes, and had them witnessed and signed. He wanted to be cremated and have his ashes put in the briefcase that he carried for the 40 years he worked in an office.

How many of his wishes were carried out by his next of kin (his 2nd wife, who was not the mother of his children)?

Zero. Exactly zero.

His wife and Jim's sister said they wouldn't cremate Doug because he was Catholic and they thought that whole briefcase idea was ridiculous. Jim was pissed off, and, rightfully so. They went against what his father had wanted, but...who was going to stop them? Doug was no longer there to have a say in the matter.

12 years later, Jim died, and basically the same thing happened. I was no longer married to him at the time, so I didn't have a say, and don't envy his daughter having to plan a funeral when she herself wasn't even 25 years old yet, but...that funeral didn't feel like the Jim I knew.

I think it's rare to have a service that feels like the person you are honoring--maybe it's because we are all a little different to each person we meet. Parents put together a different service than a person's friend might, for example. We know people in different ways and what feels like honoring them to one person, feels tone deaf to another.

When my father passed away, our local small town pastor was left with the task of eulogizing him. Let me start by saying that Don Carr was not a man who attended church. Not a regular Sunday-goer, not an Easter/Christmas goer...just...didn't go. He didn't know Pastor Wayne, and Pastor Wayne didn't really know him. We sat around at the family service with Pastor Wayne at the front of the room, asking us to tell him about my dad. We did. We all had stories. Some of them seemed like they were out of a Smokey and the Bandit movie because that was who my father was, ultimately--a bit of The Bandit with a heaping handful of Rooster Cogburn thrown in there. Cowboy hat, crooked smile, charming as hell, good at what he did, and not interested in your bullshit. (We went to see True Grit on the big screen the other day, and...that's my dad, right there. John Wayne = Don Carr).

The pastor fashioned a decent eulogy for the funeral based on the things we told him at the family service, but the mischievousness was missing, for me. Of course it was missing--the head mischief maker was being uncharacteristically quiet in the box at the front of the room, instead of hanging with us in the pews. He was not a pew sitter to begin with, so I suppose that part is perfectly appropriate.

Maybe the reason I don't like funerals is because they never feel like they should, to me.

*sigh* Everyone's a critic, right?

**Cue flashback to the TV Show Six Feet Under, "Invisible Woman" episode--the single lady, at home with her cat(s), chokes to death on one of those frozen, microwave, "meals for one" in the opening scene. Her body is not found for a while, and, it's not pretty, so they can't do much with it. At her funeral, pre-planned and paid for by the deceased, we hear a recording of Jennifer Holliday belting out "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going" to a room full of empty pews. Wow...that's...unexpected, but...it's what she wanted, and who knew her better than she, herself? None of the people on her contact list were involved in the planning or even showed up to the funeral. If her friends had gotten involved, I'm sure that song would have gone the way of the Doug's briefcase.**

(I fully expect that Barb's funeral will go like this: Her father, with the money, will make all the decisions and all the speeches, and, like all the decisions he has made "for" her for most of her 55 years, those decisions will have nothing to do with what Barb wants, and will exclude Kathy, entirely.

Mark my words. I am making this prediction, right now, and I'll bet $100 on it to any taker, though I would be happier to lose that bet than win it. Barb wants to be cremated and to have Kathy keep her cremains. My $100 says he'll do a traditional burial in her home town, 250 miles away from Kathy.

I better be wrong, or that man is going straight to hell.)

At my age, I have been able to avoid going to many funerals. I suppose that will start to change, now, as time ticks on. My mother is nearly 80 and goes to a lot of funerals, unfortunately. If luck holds, I will one day be almost 80 and going to a lot of funerals, too, even though I hate them. They say funerals are for the living, and that is certainly true in that the dead are no longer here to talk about what this whole "life" thing meant to them. If only they could--maybe that would set a few people straight.

I'm sure somebody would still walk out of the room disappointed.

I have, at this hour, which is less than 24 hours since I heard my best friend's death is imminent, already been told that I'm doing this whole "mourning" thing wrong.

Everyone's a critic.

I am easing into the idea of her not being here anymore. At some point, I'll hit a bump, and have a sob.

I will probably hit several bumps and have several sobs.

I have a lot of complicated feelings about this that will never be spoken beyond one or two extremely trusted acquaintances. The online community is never going to see me cry. This is not for your consumption.

No wailing or gnashing of teeth. No bedside vigil. I will see her and let her speak her peace, but I will never, ever, speak mine to her. I don't have the right.

I will think of her when I travel, and think of her every time I see The Wizard of Oz, or Gone With The Wind, or Jaws. I do that now, and it won't change when she is gone. I will think of her when Robert and I are sitting at breakfast at Curran's, if I can bring myself to ever have breakfast at Curran's again, since she can't join us there. I will think of her when I'm rummaging through tchotchke shops, or any time I hear Huey Lewis...just like I do now.

These are rather specific ways of mourning and honoring a person and none of them are "wrong", but this is how it comes to pass that funerals are so...unsatisfying. We think of them as a way to say goodbye, and there just *isn't* a way. That person is forever. They live on, long past the time their body is disposed of. There is no "end", no finale. They are there in that song or that movie or that little Tin Man knick-knack you found at that junk shop...until you yourself die and take your memories with you.

We know this, but....we forget, and, we freak out because it all seems so urgent now, and we want to duke it out with people to make sure *our* way of mourning comes out on top.

There is no "timely" death, no "proper" way to mourn, no by-the-book sadness, and there will probably never be a fully satisfying funeral. It is my hope that this transition will be a peaceful one, for Barb and for Kathy. Nothing I, or anyone else, has to say is all that important, right now. I hope everyone just shuts up and listens, because I don't want to have to duke it out with anyone (though, my dad was The Duke, after all, so...you don't want to pick a fight with me...)

Cookies and Ice Cubes

2019-05-08T11:17:00.000-05:00

I went to visit Barb and Kathy at their house last night--actually went over to drop off a couple of bags of ice. You know how when you are in the hospital, if you can't eat, one of the few joys you have is the ice? A cup of chipped ice is some kind of weirdly life-affirming sustenance.

She's taking her ice "whole-cube" now, but luckily it's to just cool the drinks.

Not so luckily, drinks is all she can have at the moment, but chewing ice still feels like eating.

I got a tutorial on the medical tools being used to keep my friend alive, and that is why I am posting on the blog instead of on the Go Fund Me page--I wanted to talk about what she is going through and knew that describing it would take up a bit of space.

I want to be clear that I'm not trying to paint a dire picture or anything, but the reality of the situation may be upsetting. It's certainly upsetting to Barb and to Kathy, but, it's a part of the process. Science at work. Tubes come out, tubes going in, bags, buckets, bandages, etc.

Another thing I wish to make clear is this: We didn't start the fundraiser with the idea that we could pay for her treatment or anything lofty like that. What was a $3000 fundraiser became a $10,000 fundraiser after we learned of the seriousness of the medical situation and learned that she would not be returning to work in "a month or two". We are not under the illusion that three, or even ten thousand dollars can buy you a seat at the table when it comes to cancer treatment in the United States. They have sought, and received, help from social services for the medical bill part of the equation. The fundraiser was started because after Barb missed a lot of work due to her illness, they were in danger of losing their house. Of course, she is still not working, and now, Kathy has reached a point at her work where they can no longer pay her on days or hours she misses work while taking care of Barb. This bit is where the fundraiser has taken on a new importance, because getting cut down to one income is one thing--severe, but with adjustments, you can make it. When you are needed at home, as Kathy is, and your being needed means you have *no* income at all during those times, it becomes a scary situation.

Kathy and Barb paid up the mortgage and put a large chunk in their savings account for later use and are doing what they can with the very kind gifts from various sources. More on that, later.

Anyway...on to what is happening.

When you go to Barb and Kathy's house, the first one to greet you is Gibson, the chocolate lab, who is just as confused by the chaos as the human occupants of the house. I wish my boyfriend was with me last night when I went over, because Robert is a bit of a "dog whisperer" (OK, who am I kidding? He prefers dogs to humans.) and he would have sat on the floor and loved that pup to pieces and by the time we left the dog would have been so mellow you'd have thought somebody mixed a sedative in his food. As it was, Robert was not there, and, Gibby is just damn sick of people coming and going from his house all day so he was a bit stressed out. :-( Poor sweetie.

I sat down next to Barb on the sofa and had The Stuff explained to me. So...there is a tube going into her stomach, to supply sustenance (this is a tan-color liquid that must be refrigerated, and comes in bags which hook on to the tube. They deliver it to the house a few days supply at a time). The tan stuff is pumped in, and there is a little back-pack style thing that holds the bag and the pump. Kathy does the work of getting the bags and pump together and going. One of the bags is pumping in from 6PM to 6AM every day--the pump is silent so even though this is happening, a person can still get some rest. There is another bag that is on for 4 hours at a different time of day. As fluids go in, they must also come out eventually, and there is a tube for that, which empties into a container that is dumped out every few hours. This is due to the blockage in her bowel, which was the reason she was most recently hospitalized. The same port that is used for nutrients will eventually be used for chemotherapy, and the chemo will then shrink that blockage, at which point she can have pizza. Or whatever.

I'm going to stop right there because I realize all of this sounds awful. If you are a medical professional, this is probably routine, but while describing it just now I thought...wow, that's pretty heavy. Please know that our patient is not lying weak on a hospital bed, unable to communicate or anything like that. When she called me, her voice was as strong as it has ever been, and she has her sense of humor. She has very good upper body strength, but her legs are quite weak due to the edema and due to lying in a hospital bed for 9 days. This process is not normal for a human body--we MOVE, and those of us who can walk are walking all the time. When we don't do that, we atrophy, and need to work back up to walking. Right now, Barb is considered a "fall risk" patient due to weak legs. She can get around somewhat if someone helps her up, but really isn't allowed to get up by herself. She would empty her own waste container, for example, if she could rise and walk safely, and do lots of other things, but she is sort of stuck on the sofa.

Barb is taking several pain-killers at the moment. They are pills, and basically the only solids she is consuming. When she takes the pills, she has to shut off her "drain" tube for about 45 minutes to allow the meds to get into her system, otherwise they would just drain out with everything else.

All of this is taking a real mental toll, as you can imagine. When I got there last night, she was in a worried state, pulling at tubes and saying "this is my life now" and feeling pretty bummed out about it. This is a normal reaction. It can be very depressing, and a person is really in mourning for the life they once had--they just want it to be the way it was before. You, as a patient, have moments when it seems so useless and you wonder why you bother. That is normal. It is hard for those of us who aren't Barb to hear her having a hard time, and our reactions run the gamut from trying to cheer her up and telling her she has to fight, or, telling her she's gonna beat this thing, to just wanting to hug her and try to show some empathy. I do not know what the "correct" response is. I know two things: A 5% chance of survival over the next five years is shitty odds, and, *somebody* has to be in that 5%. That's all I know. I don't try to sugarcoat a damn thing for her. I just put my arm around her, let her have her emotions, and remind her that we're just moving forward from here. We don't know yet, what will happen.

Meanwhile, Kathy, who is the chief caregiver, is also having her emotions. In February, she was a kitchen manager, and by May she was an almost full-time nurse, AND a kitchen manager, only she was not getting paid for the nurse gig. She is exhausted. While Barb was in the hospital, Kathy called me a lot because she needed to vent, and have someone to talk to, too. Now that Barb is home, she has her focus, but, it's still difficult, of course. When you work, you want to do the best work you can and as long as your employer is good to you, don't want to leave them hanging, but life calls, and you must go. Her employer has been great, but there is only so much any employer is willing to do in this situation. Add to that all of the random housework Barb and Kat used to share that is now 100% Kathy's job, and, you understand why she's exhausted.

That was the bulk of my visit--learning what was going on, medically. It's a lot, but, it's forward movement. What more can you do, right?

The rest of the time, we talked about how grateful they are for all the help they have received. Kathy showed me long-needed repairs that friends had come over and completed for them, free of change. She told me about how people from her work had given her gift cards for food and other gift cards for various expenses. Obviously, the overwhelming response to the Go Fund Me has been incredibly helpful. We had a bit of a funny time going through literal baskets of stuff that people had put together for Barb. It was mostly snack foods, cookies, nuts etc. Barb is currently on a diet of really watered down malt-o-meal, applesauce and ice, plus the tan-colored goop. As such, Kathy decided I should take those gift snacks home to Robert and there was audible whimpering while Barb watched her cookies being given away!

Don't worry, honey, I'll buy you cookies when this shit is all over. In the meantime, folks, please don't give her any food as a gift--it's just depressing right now. I reminded her that fasting before chemotherapy is a good thing but I think I now owe her something like 10 boxes of Mrs. Fields. A small price to pay.

One last thing: They are working to get more home care for Barb, because, as I mentioned, Kathy is in a difficult position at work at the moment. They will need someone to come over for a little while in the morning, let the dog out, get Barb settled for the day, etc., and hopefully that will happen sooner rather than later. If anyone reading this knows of a resource, please get in touch.

And that's my update. I wanted to paint as clear a picture as possible so everyone understands what is happening now. Obviously, the fundraiser is still active, and all help is appreciated. We're just trying to keep it going, so we welcome all "shares" of the fundraiser. We are incredibly grateful to David Kajganich for using his platform to get the word out--the internet can be a wonderful place, sometimes, and that boost literally saved their house, so things like that do matter! Thanks everyone, for your ongoing support!

To The Terror Community:

2019-04-18T08:53:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I see a funny/cool thing online and think, “I ❤️ the internet,” and sometimes I see awful/hateful things and think, “I hate the internet.” Today is a ❤️ day on the internet, and let me tell you why:

I woke up this morning to a bunch of Twitter notifications and before I had my first cup of coffee, discovered that a group of people that I do not know were coming to the aid of my friend who has cancer.

I started a fundraiser for Barb a couple of weeks ago because my friend was not able to work and was stuck waiting around for a month before her surgery. At the time, we thought the surgery was going to do most of the heavy lifting getting rid of the cancer.

As we discovered once they had her open, there was a newly formed and inoperable tumor, so, Plan B.

A bit of background: my sister works in cancer research. Her best friend, who is also my friend, is also a cancer researcher, and...by virtue of analyzing things in this way, they have a level of calm about cancer that is probably not shared by most folks. I share that calm, just being close enough to them to get the information in the way they present it. It can seem cold to the casual observer. It's not meant to be, it's just...we see a problem and our brains get to work on the solution. We don't see the word "cancer" and collapse into a puddle, which is the more human thing to do.

When they got the initial diagnosis, Barb and her partner just “lost it”. Perfectly normal to do so. And when Kathy heard the word “inoperable”, yesterday, she lost it again. Perfectly normal.

We all sat with this information marinating over the evening. My researcher friend sent me some stuff in a calm-voiced email, and I was glad to hear that tone...that soothing sound of “OK, here’s what I would do,” coming from an expert that I trust.

And that thing...the immediacy of that information becoming available, was definitely an “ I ❤️ the internet” moment, but it gets better...

My friend is a horror fan. Barb has read every Stephen King , watched endless scary movies with my daughter (who also loves horror), and is mad-addicted to scary TV like The Walking Dead and The Terror. She joined some of their online communities, enjoys talking about them with other fans, and generally just has a ball with it. That’s “I ❤️ the Internet” Number 2. Fans! Worldwide! How great is that?

But today...today was the biggest “I ❤️ the Internet” day of all, because those Twitter notifications I got this morning? They were from those fans. Those fans, those actors, producers and other folks from that community, all saying, “we’d like to help”.

My friend is not internet savvy. She doesn’t Twitter, can manage Facebook, but doesn’t really know how to reach folks on a grand scale using this tool. When it came time to start a fundraiser, she had just me and my (purposely small) Facebook friends group plus Barb and Kat’s even smaller lists. They asked me to try to raise $3000 based on the premise that Barb would be back to work in a month or two and they just needed some temporary help. I started a $4K go fund me and started talking on the internet.

“Talking on the Internet” is a weird skill. I mean I think I suck at it, but it kind of reminds me of the days when I worked in Top 40 radio....you have a 20 second ramp! Be witty and informative, but mostly be quick! Oh no! The singer started singing! Shut up now!

And you just do that over and over again, until everyone knows the Phrase That Pays or whatever.

Good ole radio...

Anyway...

We pulled together a couple thousand dollars relatively quickly and I thought, this is OK. We’ll be OK.

Then Barb’s prognosis went from 75% 5-yr survival rate to 5%. (I keep wanting to retype that because I wish FIVE PERCENT was a fucking typo. It’s not.)

It became clear that she would never go back to work, might not be alive to vote in the 2020 election, would leave her partner of 25 years devastated, and, let’s face it, leave the world a lot less fun because she’s Barb, and we’re just damn lucky to have her.

That’s what I went to bed with last night. I will likely lose my friend, sooner rather than later. Fuck.

What I woke up to was...Twitter notifications. Fans and folks from The Terror saying hi. Helping. Inviting others to help, because Barb is one of them. This is the Internet. This is...fucking beautiful, is it not?

So...I ❤️ the Internet today. I’ll probably hate it later when my asshole cousin posts mean-spirited political memes on Facebook, but right now? Pure gold.

Cool thing about the Internet? I can also use it to send my undying gratitude. To all of you brilliant, gorgeous folks in The Terror community, you make my day. When Barb sees what you did, she’s gonna cry, but it will be good tears for a change, so THANK YOU.

Because Zombies Are Less Scary Than Cancer

2019-04-05T14:07:00.001-05:00

The best and worst things happen when you start a crowdfunding campaign to help a friend with a medical-bill-induced financial crisis.

[Disclaimer: I know this is just a thing in the USA, and really nowhere else. In this country, the word "Cancer" is synonymous with the word "bankruptcy". We do our best to squeak on by, and in the process, learn a lot about people. Here are some things I have learned.]

The Best: People who don't even know your friend, who are just good people wanting to help, chip in a buck or two, saying, "I don't know your friend but I see she's important to you." Or people who do know your friend chip in surprisingly large amounts and it's a little overwhelming. Things like that.

The Worst: People become super-judge-y about how money is being used. Don't get me wrong, I'm judge-y too. Very. But what would I do with that money? One dinner out. I can eat at home one night.

Example: My friends have cable and are worried about getting their cable shut off. I hate cable. Haaaaaaaate cable. Hate-hate. But you know what? My friend is stuck on her sick ass at home alone all damn day, not able to work and bored out of her mind. She's not particularly internet savvy--Netflix is like a super complicated, novel thing to her, and she doesn't know what a Roku is. She's drifting in and out of lucidity (on four different painkillers...good grief...). I'll raise $100 so you can have your one comfort for thirty days, even though I want Comcast to burn to the ground (once innocent employees have left the building, of course). What's it to me? Not a damn thing. Next.

The Other: Wow, it's complicated. I mean, promotion is an easy thing for me--the task of getting the word out about a thing is second nature. I can write that shit all day. I don't have a platform to speak of these days, though. I keep my friends list purposely short on Facebook, assume all my Twitter followers are bots, and apply both of those problems to my Instagram. Probably 20 actual humans I touch base with on a regular basis. I am not yet at the stage where I am tweeting celebrities and asking them to share my Beggin' Click, but...it's on the radar.

Looking at you, Norman Reedus.

Why Norman Reedus? Because my friend has fucking cable, and zombies are her comfort. Zombies are less scary than cancer.

It's the navigation of all of the good and the bad that makes it so complicated. You have people giving you money, and you're so grateful--you can't say enough things to express how grateful you are. At the same time you have people who aren't going to budge, and you wonder how much effort to put into them (probably none is a good amount), and you're strategizing how much or how little to talk about it on your Facebook or your Twitter.

What's the tipping point of annoyance in your small circle of acquaintances? If you go past the tipping point, what will happen? Lifetime ban from social media?

I should be so lucky.

And then you have the people who feel like they need to give you a little sermon before telling you no. The ones who don't agree with your friend's "lifestyle" (a 25+ year stable relationship with one person) because she is gay, or that ones that question how they will spend the money because they don't seem particularly good with money.

Let's not forget the ones who, since nothing bad has ever happened to them, personally, figure your friend should have just planned better so they would be ready for the upheaval that cancer brings.

Sure. Should have just...planned better.

Meanwhile, my friend and her partner are about to lose the house, so her (wealthy) parents sent her a greeting card saying they "feel so helpless" and tucked in a $50 gift card to Olive Garden, because that's how fucking tone deaf they are.

It's weird.

Money is weird, people are weird, and people are really fucking weird about money.

PS: Don't get sick.

Anyway...someday my friend and her partner are going to have themselves a fine, celebratory meal at Olive Garden. We'll laugh about her crazy parents and there will be much eye rolling and probably wine and stuff. Until then...let's see if my bullshit can pull them through.

You know the drill...help if you can, and thank you, fair human. Or zombie. Either/or. I don't judge.

Remember That Old Cartoon With a Picture of a Tombstone With the Inscription, "I told you I was sick!"?

2019-03-12T16:28:00.001-05:00

This morning, I drove my best friend to an "urgent medical care visit". Those are the words I texted my boss to tell him I would be a little late.

"Urgent medical care visit" should be taken to mean, "my friend has no insurance, no primary physician, no money, and gets her medical care from the urgent care and/or Emergency Room, depending on the severity of the situation in question."

The fact that I drove her would indicate it's serious, and the place we went to was the ER.

There is so much to talk about, here. Just soooo much.

Beyond the cost of care in this country, there is the issue of medical literacy, and the fact that my friend is the caretaker in her household. She also has an unsympathetic employer.

If you are wondering how it got to "serious", please re-read that last last sentence.

For months, she has been experiencing pain. MONTHS. But her unsympathetic boss needed her. so she took pills and went to work, and her partner needed her, so she hunched over the sink and washed the stupid dishes.

Wanna know why she has no insurance? Well, they needed the money for day to day living, so, no, her needs were secondary and would have to wait until they were doing better. (Note: she is in a same sex, unmarried household and I'm not sure if her partner has insurance or if the partner's employer offers to domestic partners, I just know my friend doesn't have medical insurance)

No Primary Care Physician? Same. Can't be all "going to the doctor for my annual check-up/pap/mammogram" because who the hell has that kind of time and money? That's where they're at. These are real choices that real people are making every day.

Now...as I said, there is a lot to unpack here. My friend is not blameless. I have been hassling her for a while now to get health insurance. It's offered at her work, it's just so damned expensive and the combination of Sticker Shock and I'm Not Worthy has kept her from getting health insurance. I have NO idea what they were doing regarding the "individual mandate" requiring people to get health insurance, but, even though she has been at the same job for well over 10 years, she has not purchased a health insurance plan. That's Issue Number One. I completely understand WHY she doesn't want to shell out the money because it's a lot for an hourly worker. I just wish she would.

It's...a luxury item, health insurance. But it's like you are a person who doesn't carry a purse but you buy a new Louis Vuitton bag every couple months. That's how she looks at it, and how a lot of people do (and...they're not wrong on the price point). It's just something that doesn't seem practical, until...one day you are forced to produce the financial equivalent of a couple dozen Louis Vuitton bags all in one day instead of buying them slowly over time. My friend would have a lot less anxiety about seeking care if she knew, for example, that if she had insurance, even the low cost insurance, that she would get an annual checkup included with that every year. How valuable are annual visits? Very. You and the doctor have those conversations, and things come up, and you say something like, "well, I don't think it's anything, but it hurts when I _____" and your doctor says, "That's interesting. I would like to test you for ____" and you discover a very treatable condition that's a 5 dollar prescription instead of a 5 THOUSAND dollar ER visit down the road.

Spend the savings on a Louis Vuitton bag.

Issue Number 2. Urgent Care, ER, urgent care, ER, urgent care, ER, blah, blah, blah, on an endless cycle of trying to put out a raging fire via bucket brigade. If you have a Primary Care Physician, and you see them once a year, there is a nice record of your stats somewhere, someone to coordinate care, and a less expensive place to go when (still little) things pop up.

"I really should see someone for that. Oh wait! I have someone!" That doesn't make going to the doctor less of a pain-in-the wherever-your-pain-is, but it's less painful than the ER bill.

Issue Number 3, the elephant in the room: It's expensive. Getting sick in this country can and will bankrupt you. I think we all know this and don't need to go into too much detail but if you want to know a big part of the reason why my friend delayed care until she absolutely could not stand the pain another minute, you can look to the fact that to her, even the lower price points are too much--can't afford it, period.

Now, we're going to talk about medical literacy, and we'll call it Issue Number 4. Little, dumb stuff like, if you get antibiotics, take ALL of your antibiotics, even after you start to feel better. Or, great big stuff, like, every growth/mass/shadow on an image isn't cancer, and even if it is, many of them are "easily" treatable and have good survival rates. There is a lot of "I don't want to know" going on in this situation, and, honestly, a lot of denial. My friend has it in her mind that this is a "They're just gonna figure it out and give me a pill" kind of illness, when in reality, based on what I know about the situation, the medicine required may be surgical in nature. While I am personally not afraid of surgery, the thought of it utterly terrifies her. There are a multitude of complicated reasons why it's frightening to her. Some of them are legitimate, some not, but you can bet front and center is the price tag.

Issue Number 5: Why do you keep missing work? Your department is a mess! That's an actual thing that was texted to my friend. "(Department) is a mess!" like it's her fault. My friend doesn't run the place, is not a manager of people and does not decide who covers things in anyone's absence--that's the manager. Guess who complained about the department being a mess? That manager. The one who is in charge of that and all of the other departments. So first of all, fuck that bitch. Second, my friend is a prime example of a worker with an employer who does not give a rats ass about them--hourly wage earner who, if she doesn't work, doesn't get paid, even after years and years of loyalty. No breaks for you, not a hint of compassion. She has a boss who, instead of saying "sorry this is happening" is texting my friend the company attendance policy and trying to shame her for calling in sick "wrong" while she was sitting in the passenger seat of my car on the way to the emergency room. Nobody gives a fuck about the attendance policy when they are crying and hugging me at a stoplight on the way to the hospital, Karen, so save it.

Also, fuck that bitch.

Meanwhile, my boss? A notorious, cranky, curmudgeon? My boss? When I told him I was going to be late because I was running my friend to the ER, he said, "Drive safe and thank you for helping others in need."

Now...my employer would replace me in about 5.26 days if need be, but at least they are not full-on pricks about it in the interim.

And finally....lets talk about what I personally think is the *other* elephant in the room, and that is...women don't take care of themselves. Women are taking care of others and when the shit hits us, we're all, "It's nothing," and you know what? The more you do that, the more people will take advantage of that. The more you work through pain, emotional or physical, the more your boss or your partner is gonna take advantage, and I don't say this to mean that they all do it on purpose, it's just a combination of women not wanting to be a bother and women wanting to be strong for their families and take care of their mates/children and those other individuals just riding along because for them, everything is fine. Everything is fine because we never let on that it's not until it's really, really bad. We're just like that. We joke around about "man flu" when a guy has a cold and goes to bed for three days, when what we should really being doing is exactly what our mates do. Oh, they may not be very good at taking care of us, or not as good as we are at taking care of them, but they will manage. Stop acting like you're the only one who can feed the household, or clean the kitchen. Take your rest when you need it! Let them crow all they want--if they're the type to complain about you being sick, then they'll find something to complain about when you're well, too--might as well go to the doctor, since they're going to complain, anyway...

So...an update. Since I started writing this, my friend has been admitted to a hospital. Bad news, right? Well, in this case, it's not. In this case, it's validation that this illness should be taken seriously, by her boss, her mate, and by my friend, too.

She's gonna half to sit there and...LET PEOPLE TAKE CARE OF HER.

The horror.

She's going to be on happy pain relievers and won't be able to think about how much it's going to cost her.

Good.

She's going to have medical staff tell her mate how to take care of her, and friends like me sending her flowers.

She's going to have a nice "I told you I was sick!" moment with her asshole manager.

Right now, that's my favorite part of this. Because fuck that bitch.

Impassioned

2018-11-01T14:32:00.000-05:00

I was filling out a form yesterday and one of the questions asked why I thought (insert thing I do for money) was important.

The field allowed for 250 words.

Would you cringe at the idea of summarizing your work into a 250 word description? Or do you have a job that is "I do X" with no emotion attached to the process or the outcome?

I went for it.

I used 4 paragraphs, 231 words.

I won't re-post it here, because I work for somebody and as long as I am taking their money, those things are their business and not yours, but there was a tone to that response that I wondered and worried about, after I hit the "Submit" button.

I wondered if I was too emotional, to philosophical, or too...impassioned, in my response. I really laid it on thick, Mission Statement style, and sounded like some shitty corporate weasel trying to make everybody feel good about the work they do at the annual Town Hall webinar. It was a true emotion while I was writing it, but after I sent it I felt a little queasy, like I knew someone was going to read that and roll their eyes so hard they would need help getting their fact un-stuck (never forget your mother's warnings!).

On any given Tuesday *I* would be the one rolling my eyes at the things I said. I would have looked at that and thought, "Oh dear gawd, give me a break. Are there donuts?" and passed it off as, yes, just something people say to underlings in a corporate environment to make them feel like any of this shit matters.

Let me be clear: None of this shit matters. If I stopped doing the work I do, you would not notice. If I had the means, I would retreat to the cabin up north and happily work part time at the local bakery/sandwich shop (which is fantastic, by the way--softest bread, ever, and that bowl of chicken and wild rice soup will keep you warm for days) if they'd have me.

Then I'd be all excited about a job.

I mean, come on, it's bread!

You would notice if there was no more bread.

I do what I do because I have a knack and they pay me well and that's kind of it, which sounds like I couldn't care less, but here's the thing: I'm loyal as hell. I am! Truly. However...my loyalty to my work is actually just my loyalty to my philosophy of work, in general--the current employer is the most recent recipient of my work ethic.

In my roundabout way, that's my means of saying it is OK to have a nerdy, impassioned answer for why what you do is important. If you think your job is dumb, you're probably right. It's dumb. It's not your job that is important, it's why you do that particular thing the way you do it, that is important.

I have been thinking a lot about my job, lately, and how all I do is sit around all day, doing things badly because that's how my boss wants them done, and thinking everything we are doing is crap but, the boss is the boss so that's how we are doing it and stamping my name on this work is making me look like shit. Filling out that form reminded me that...well...it isn't me. I do care. I just...don't care about this current thing and allowing myself to stay stuck in this place is bad for me.

As Quentin Crisp said: “It's no good running a pig farm badly for 30 years while saying, 'Really, I was meant to be a ballet dancer.' By then, pigs will be your style.”

As it happens, my boss got a copy of all of our forms, though the boss wasn't the one asking the question. If he takes it as a hint to start a conversation about my future, that would be cool, and would inspire me to stick it out. If not, well...he's got a heads up that I need more. I'm impassioned, damn-it!

Maybe it will help him be less surprised when I ditch this gig and go bake bread in the woods.

I Would Call This A Recipe Blog But The Recipe Is At The Top Of The Page And Most Of The Ridiculous Banter Is In This Title

2018-07-31T10:27:00.000-05:00

You know how on recipe blogs they always tell that *hilarious* story about that one time they went to that one place and ate that one thing and fell in LOVE with the thing and made numerous attempts to recreate the dish at home and they detail all their failings in a very long, stretched out thing you scroll past while trying to find the actual recipe?

This is not that.

In fact, here's the recipe, right on the top of the blog! Who does that? Oh, and I sort of stole it from the back of a quinoa bag, so, there goes the bit about trial and error. Weird! I added my own touches and got it right, right away!

The Salad That I Live On In The Summer--I like to think of it as a classic Greek Salad plus quinoa and mint, so...tabbouleh, I guess? Make a huge batch and keep it in the fridge. As with all my "recipes", this is really loose in terms of amounts. If you like more, or less, of a particular ingredient, do what you like!

2-3 cucumbers, diced
6-8 large-ish cherry tomatoes, quartered
1 bell pepper, diced (any color. You can also use those little snacker peppers if you have them)
1/2 of an onion, diced
1/3 to 1/2 cup Kalamata olives--how ever many you like
1/3 to 1/2 cup feta cheese, diced (If you do not do dairy, check out some of the cashew cheeses and see if you can find something that approximates the tangy goodness that is feta cheese--we found one at our local co-op that had no soy or sweeteners or dairy. You can also make your own vegan feta, but I'm not that ambitious)

Now...you can add some other cut up veggies to this. It's your salad. I am notorious for chopping carrots and celery into every damn thing! However, the ingredients above make up the classic Greek salad base. They also, very conveniently, help me use up the garden veggies that are in abundance relatively early in the season--those pesky tomatoes and cucumbers! If you have some zucchini sitting around, that's fine, but stay away from the stronger flavored stuff like kohlrabi.

Back to the salad ingredients:

3-4 cups of prepared and cooled quinoa. Do whatever it says on the package! Don't ask me, I have to read the package every time, too.

I have thought about this and found that there really isn't another grain I would use for this salad, but if you would like to try some and get back to me, the comments section is open.

There is nothing quite so satisfying after you've been standing around dicing vegetables for half a day (mild exaggeration) as stirring all the stuff together, so:

Stir all that stuff together.

Now we have to dress this thing, and here is another area where you can be flexible. Assume you'll want around a 1/2 cup of dressing, to start.

Do you have a bottled Greek dressing that you really like?

Use that.

Do you have a perfect Greek Salad dressing recipe that you've been using forever?

Use that.

Do you wish I would just give you an ingredient list for the stupid dressing?

Fine.

I use:

1/4 olive oil
1/4 lemon juice
salt/pepper to taste
1 tsp dried oregano (or 2 TBS fresh)
2 TBS chopped fresh mint (optional, but very nice)

Pro tip I should have given you at the top: Stir the dressing together before you start chopping vegetables and let it sit on your counter so the dried oregano has time to flavor it. In fact, do this if you are using fresh oregano, too. Then right before you put the dressing on the salad, be sure to stir the dressing again and taste it to make sure you love it before you dump it all over those vegetables you slaved over.

OK, where were we? You have your dressing that you love, and you chopped all those vegetables and you slaved over a hot stove for like, 20 minutes, to make quinoa. You let the quinoa cool all the way. You stirred all the veggies and the quinoa together, and you put that dressing you love on top of that and stirred it in.

Are you done?

Sure. Be done.

Put a cover on that and throw it in the fridge. Pull it out in a couple of hours and taste to see if you'd like some more dressing, or salt, etc, on it--it should have a nice, not overwhelming, tang to it, from the olives and the cheese and the lemon juice. If you have found you have too much dressing, cure that problem by adding more cooked and cooled quinoa.

Wow, you're really good at this! You should write a recipe blog!

Like A Boss

2017-06-30T13:30:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, I had a boss.

To be clear, I still have a boss, but this story is about some other boss...the boss who had the distinction of being the worst boss I have ever had.

We clashed. Oh, how we clashed. I clash with a lot of bosses, but this this guy, the clashes were daily. Over time, his boss became involved--I made that happen. When a situation is not getting fixed no matter what you try, not only do you need a witness, you need a witness with some power over the situation.

One conversation I had with the boss's boss was rather interesting in that at one point, Boss's Boss started to point out some behaviors of mine that were less than perfect.

My answer to him was simple: "I'm not the boss."

That's not a cop-out. I own my bad behaviors, of which there are plenty. I have several qualities that make me unsuited to be someone's boss in a corporate environment--that's why I don't seek those positions.

But my boss, obviously, was a boss. He sought that position and got it. Because he was not prepared for the position he got, he had employees who talked shit about him. When the employees know more about the job than their boss does, and it extends long past the "new guy" threshold, it's a problem. When employees have a better grasp of the corporate mission than their boss, it's a problem.

At some point, my boss became at least somewhat aware of the fact that none of his employees respected him.

If it were me, and I found out that nobody respected me, I would consult my own boss and say, "Am I OK?" and get some guidance. Let's face it--in Corporate America, having your employees dislike you is not necessarily a clue that you are doing things wrong. Sometimes corporations have to take a department in a direction that the employees don't like. A good boss embraces the mission and makes the change palatable. A bad boss shrugs, blames corporate (in some misguided attempt to be the "good guy"), and takes no responsibility or interest in his employees' reactions. He doesn't care.

This guy was a bad boss. He thought that since he was the boss, he was above us and didn't have to learn anything new--that we should fall in line and support his idiocy, or perhaps protect him from it. We weren't having it. We reported his stupid behavior over and over, to interested parties. He started to react to the fact that we didn't respect him by punishing us in those weird corporate ways--scheduling mandatory meetings in the middle of your vacation and demanding that you be there, or else; giving promotions to people he "likes" rather than people who are qualified; severely docking you for being 10 minutes late even though it was the only time you had been late in a year; etc.

You know what I mean...all those corporate dick moves that bad bosses make.

His staff began to complain, and because I am the loudest person in just about any room, of course I complained the loudest.

Here's the thing: I'm a competent employee who shows up every day and gives it my full attention until I walk out the door. If you can't give it at least as much as I do every day, you shouldn't be my boss. I expect my boss to be better at it than me, otherwise, why are they my boss? I expect my boss to be smarter than me, otherwise...why are they my boss?

And yes, I expect my boss to be a better person than me, at least in the confines of dealing with people at work. Be a dick on your own time--I have corporate overlords to appease and you're hindering my process!

I expect bosses to have more measured reactions and to think things through more than I might. I expect them to have knowledge that I maybe don't have, and to use that knowledge to steer the ship. I expect them to be calm when I panic, and if it's not too much to ask, I hope that they will use their expertise and knowledge to help me be calm, too.

You know...be a boss.

Be the fucking boss.

Lead people.

Steer the ship instead of freaking out and lashing out.

Solve problems instead of making problems..

It's not too much to ask, especially when you *asked for the job*.

You probably know where this is headed...

You probably think, "She's going to start talking about the President."

Perhaps.

I am reminded of my terrible boss fairly often, because, of course, the guy living in the White House reminds me of him. They run their operations in a similar manner...badly. Shady with a side of Stupid. Zero leadership, all about me, blah, blah, blah. If only narcissists weren't so fucking boringly predictable.

But, for better or worse...he's a boss. He's THE boss, in this country at the moment, or at least he'd like you to think that he is. He can make a lot of things happen, for, and *to*, a lot of people. He's very powerful.

The latest uproar about him in the media isn't the worst thing he has ever said or done--not even close. It's not even the worst thing he's said or done since winning the election, but we churn up the fake outrage machine, and everyone pretends to be shocked at the new, alarming behavior, then next week we all go back to "meh".

Just know one thing: Just like my old boss, the right people are paying attention. The process may move slowly, but eventually, just like my old boss was eventually fired, this boss will also be fired, and for the same reason--not producing results + too many people can't stand him to justify the lack of performance.

Those of us living during this time will remember to look out for the warning signs of a terrible boss for every future engagement, and steer clear. We'll do better. We'll ask better questions, going in, and we'll investigate our potential bosses more completely from now on. All of this is not to say we won't be damaged--my career was certainly damaged by having a terrible boss, but here we are...we have one. We can't turn back time, we can only do our best to protect ourselves into this blows over.

I know this is not what we want to hear in the heat of our blast of anger, but that's the deal. Am I terrible old to have achieved this much patience? I dunno. I know that I have had a serious case of outrage exhaustion for ages now (at least 2 years) and I shut down that part of my brain when necessary--occasionally with a nice IPA. I've seen enough to know this won't last--as much as we are a republic and the citizens are the bosses, there are people--seriously people--running things that we don't even know about, and as soon as he reaches the end of his usefulness, the boss will be fired, just like in Corporate America. No real mercy in dollars and cents--when he starts to cost more than he earns, buh-bye.

In the meantime, I think we should just give the man his space, and his phone, and just keep shining that bright spotlight on him so he can be recognized in all his glory. Go ahead, big guy...show us what you're capable of. Stomp through that tulip patch like a boss. Show us who is in charge...exactly who. Don't worry, your bosses are taking notes.

If I'm So Easy, Then Why Is This So Hard?

2017-03-21T14:09:00.002-05:00

I joined an online dating site ten days ago.

As you can imagine, it's been a combination of horror and...what are three synonyms for horror?

You start off with about a dozen scammers contacting you immediately. What's a scammer? That is someone with a fake online dating profile who reaches out to you to try to get you to give them your "off-site" information so they can contact you and play upon your emotions, get you to feel something, and at some point, get you to give them some money.

HA! Jokes on them! I have no emotions! Or money.

If you are smart, hopefully you recognize the scammer profile immediately. If you're not smart, just pay attention to their level of urgency--if they're dying to talk to you, it's a scam.

Not that people aren't dying to talk to you.

It's easy for me. Literally nobody is dying to talk to me, so when someone is very excited, I know it's bull.

Online dating is an intense masters-level course in self confidence. Yeah, I know those pictures are dweebie as all hell, and I am still not at my ideal weight. At some point you have to say, "well, fuck it, maybe some guy likes girls with hips," and just go for it. Trick is, you have to do it knowing full well that NO guy on there cares that you used to be fatter and you lost 60 pounds and you're skinnier now. They just care if you're skinny. Now.

They also care very much that you, the girl, make an effort. None of this "no make-up" shit. Make yourself pretty. No sweatshirts, or sweatpants. No flat shoes. No ball caps. Never mind that all of their pics are of them looking sweaty after a workout, or wearing an Under Armour/Vikings/Packers sweatshirt and dad jeans. They don't have to make an effort, they're guys!

But I digress...

I should also mention, for the most part, I don't care what they're wearing--guys in Minnesota dress a particular way, and you can't do much about that, but I must ask, why am I expected to respond positively to a guy who hit me up when he looks like hell and does nothing for me, visually, but men won't respond unless they're ready to jerk off to your full body pic?

My favorites are the ones who say they don't care about looks and that they just need someone with whom they can have a conversation. First of all, it's a lie. Of course they care about looks. There's nothing wrong with that--I care about looks, too. I'm not going out with someone who does nothing for me. Why would I? Why would anyone?

I must have read a hundred guy's profiles at this point. I take the time to read the whole thing and find things we might have in common, and I send them a non-threatening email, like, "Oh, I notice (X Restaurant) is your favorite place! I also like that restaurant. Have you been to (X Chef)'s other place? That's a good one, too. OK, well, good luck in your search!" and I send it off into the ether.

Here's what happens when you try to start a conversation with the guys who "just want conversation":

...

...

Nothing.

...

...

You knew that was coming, right?

They don't even TRY to have a conversation with you to see if you might reasonably get along, They don't even pretend conversation matters. They're not going to simply answer your question and then say something like, "You seem nice but I'm sorry, I'm just not interested." They're horrified that someone with whom they cannot picture themselves fucking has had the audacity to speak to them.

Does that sound bitter? I don't think I'm bitter. I mean, I get it--some people just don't turn your crank, and you're not interested. But...zero response? Just...nothing, Conversation Guy?

Huh.

No wonder it's a lost art.

Meanwhile, if a guy pays me a compliment and I don't immediately say, "Take me now, Stud!" then I'm a bitch.

Yes...that's how it is.

So now that we have established that it's different for guys than it is for girls, let's get to the crazy people.

I'm sure there are plenty of crazy women on a dating site. How do I know this? Because of the crazy men. I have to believe the ratios are similar. They must be...right?

Here's a scenario: I saw this guy...a normal-looking dude with an OK profile. I sent him an email saying, and I'm not making this up, that he seemed..."sane."

And I meant it.

It was a compliment. Lots of guys on an online dating site? They don't seem sane. It's kind of a big deal when you find one.

I had no reason to believe otherwise--his writing was pretty good, he seemed to have the same general outlook on life that I do, and he looked like he took care of himself to a reasonable degree. OK. Move forward. Send an email.

We exchanged a couple of emails, and I started to get a bit of a sinking feeling. Not bad-bad, just...eh...I'm not sure if this guy is for me. I decided that the one way I would be sure is to talk to him on the phone. I am a conversation girl and I like talking to someone who matches my tone/pace. I asked him if he would like to have a phone call, and he said yes, so I called him.

The conversation lasted around 40 minutes and the entire thing felt like a bare knuckle fight. He kept asking me weirdly pointed questions like he was trying to catch me in a lie. He asked me questions about things that I had already told him about in emails, which, to me, indicated he hadn't even read them. For example, he asked me about my former spouse, who I had already indicated was dead. Dead, dead, not just dead to me. Dead. I used the words, "my husband" to describe said dead person and he basically accused me of still being married.

When I started talking about what I did for a living, he (swear-to-gawd this is true) said the words, "I'm bored, already," exactly 5 seconds into the description. He asked if I liked my job and when I said I did, he acted like it couldn't possibly be true. He told me he wanted to take a bike ride on what was a wooded trail. With me. With no other people there. I expressed my concern about the safety of that--because yes, let's just go to some wooded area with some guy I've never met--and he mocked me.

Yeah. I'm feeling pretty good about the one human male wanting to speak to me this week being...shall we say...a bit on the edge...?

Now, there were some moments of the conversation that were not awful. He told me about a hobby of his that he liked and I agreed that it was a cool hobby and a cool skill to have. He told me about his work, and I, being a person who loves work, said, "hey, that's cool what you do--that's a special skill and not just anybody could do that," and I meant it, but the tone and the pace of the conversation were so outside of where I wanted to be with any human, much less a male human on a date, that there was just no recovery. He made the ask, and I said I just wasn't seeing it, and that I didn't think it would work between us.

See...here's were I always get into trouble...I felt bad about the fact that he seemed to be apologizing for his job, and his hobby--like he thought they weren't cool enough or something. I sent him a follow-up email...you know...like I would have done for a job interview? Not so great of an idea, as it happens. Perhaps arrogant of me, as well. I told him I hoped he pursued his hobby because I could tell it was something he really enjoyed but that he had seemed reluctant to talk about it. I ended it with a "hey, it was nice to 'meet' you" and a goodbye.

He answered me back by saying I was "toxic, and far from interesting or intellectual."

*sigh*

What can you do with that kind of thing? Block, and move on.

As luck would have it, the dozens of emails I had sent to other people started to trickle in returns at the same time I was declared toxic. Or more accurately, return, singular. This was OK. It was a guy in my neighborhood and I didn't necessarily think he and I would be good for each other, but I thought maybe he and I could occasionally sit at the local bar and whine about how stupid it all was.

He agreed!

Friend, made.

Worth the aggravation? Depends on your definition of "worth". Or "aggravation". Or "the".

Here's the thing: I'm the one thinking, "Gee, if he's sort of cute and seems otherwise sane...should I be judge-y about his hair/body/spelling?" and I really worry about whether I'm being fair in my assessment of these men.

Guys? Guys are just thinking about whether or not they would need the lights off to have sex with me.

In case you ever wonder why women start to think, "Alone? Alone isn't so bad," that's why.

It's tough out there...

Bad Impressions Are My Forte, Apparently

2017-03-08T05:13:00.001-06:00

I am having a, "people are being weird on the internet," day.

More specifically...people I've never met or interacted with are being weird, *at me*, on the internet.

I'm not sure what I did to generate the weird, because as I mentioned above, I remember no interactions, but I'm cursed with a mind that notices inconsistencies, so of course I did notice the weird, even if I barely noticed the people.

Huh.

Did you ever have that in real life? Where you find out someone has a strong negative reaction to you for some unknown reason, and you don't even really know them?

Strangely...that's happened to me dozens of times! I must be a real joy of a person.

This time (the internet time) it was someone with whom I have never interacted who blocked me on Twitter. I have no clue who this person is outside of a vague geographical reference, and they appear to be friends with someone with whom I occasionally interact but who is also not a friend of mine, just...another fucking person on the internet. I don't recall ever speaking to the blocker and I definitely don't recall ever speaking to them in such a way that would warrant any action, positive or negative.

But...blocked. Ha!

One time a guy blocked me on Twitter for correcting his spelling of the word "Bismarck."

Perfectly fair!

No, really! That's acceptable. Sometimes you just don't want to fucking hear it and that's OK. I've blocked people who tried to join an amicable conversation as a devils advocate, because I wasn't in the mood to debate a stranger in 140 character intervals. Mute, block, whatever. But...if you've never had a conversation with a person, or an interaction that you remember, and they block you...what is that, exactly?

Ultimately, it's the internet, so, who cares? Assigning any real value to those interactions is ridiculous, and besides, if you don't want someone to see you, either A) Don't go on Twitter or B) Have your account set to private so random people can't look at it. Invite your select group of people and stay in your little hide-y hole. Trust me, no one will give a fuck one way or the other.

It's the real life stuff that makes you pause and wonder what goes on in people's heads.

One time, a lady I worked with decided to hate me (to this day, no idea why...) and I specifically remember a day when we met in a hallway and she turned her head away and wouldn't even look at me.

If you've worked in an office, you know that's completely odd--you spend 8 hours a day exchanging non-committal pleasantries with people at work, or at least I do. Nobody is purposely rude. To go out if your way to be UN-pleasant is...very weird.

Then there was the time someone from work (different job) invited me to a Halloween costume party at their house. I had no intention of going because it wasn't my kind of thing, but I accepted their invitation with office-level non-binding graciousness. A couple of days before the party, the host informs me that they had to cancel the party. Obviously, this didn't affect me in any way because I had no intention of attending the stupid thing in the first place. I gave them the old, "Oh, that's too bad!" and went about my day--wasn't even a memorable blip until a week later when I found *pictures from the party* on one of the desks at work!

I...what?

I mean, I didn't care about the party enough to want to go but apparently somebody didn't want me there enough to go to the trouble to make up a lie to uninvite me.

Aaaand we have arrived at the point.

Sometimes, when you're out there being you, and thinking nothing of it, you end up taking up space in someone else's head, quite by accident. You don't notice anything in particular, but they notice *every fucking thing* and it upsets them in some way, for reasons you will never understand.

The bad (and good) news is that there is not a damn thing you can do about it. If you tried to find out what the problem was, there is a fair chance you'll just piss them off even more, and you don't need that kind of aggravation. Nobody needs that kind of aggravation.

Accept the fact that you're on their mind. Take it as a compliment! You made an impression! It was a bad one, but hey, you're not forgettable...

Cold + Cranky

2017-03-03T07:20:00.000-06:00

I lost my best jacket.

Sadly, it wasn't torn away from me in some dramatic story, and I didn't give it to someone more deserving. I left it on a plane, because I'm an idiot.

I'm sure more exciting things have been left on planes, but I'm a Minnesotan, and keeping warm is the height of enchantment for me.

It was one of those awesome, high tech coats that smart people designed to keep me luxuriously comfortable no matter what shit Mother Nature threw, while being practically weightless. I think the lining was designed by NASA. Probably. Stylish? Meh...if you live in the North, sure.

My perfect little grey jacket. Gone. I filed a lost and found with the airline so maybe one day I'll get it back.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Just kidding. I know I'm never going to see that fucker again.

I went for a walk last night, and since "good jacket" is off being enjoyed by some other person, I grabbed one of my other jackets. I also grabbed other gloves, and another hat, since, oh, by the way, my *good* hat and gloves were in the pockets of the coat I lost.

I spent the next hour being cold and utterly miserable with the entirely inadequate jacket, hat and gloves. Why do I even own these things?

I know the best way to get my sweet little jacket to come home is to go out and get a new jacket. That trick works with men, doesn't it As soon as you find a new one, the old one is all, "Heeeey!"

Don't act like it isn't true. You know I'm right.

Of course my strategy includes spending a lot of money on the new jacket, thus making the return of the now-dowdy-by-comparison old jacket inevitable.

If you think this is the craziest rationalization for shopping you've ever heard, we need to hang out more.

World's Worst Waiter

2017-02-18T12:13:00.001-06:00

I'm the world's worst waiter.

Not food server--I'm sort of OK at that, though I've never done it for money.

Waiting for people. Waiting makes me nuts.

I'm on time--somewhat pathologically so. It is my casual observation that no one else on earth is ever, ever, ever on time.

Slight exaggeration, but only slight.

As I write this, it is 12:24. I was supposed to meet someone at "around 11," which to me means, say, anywhere from 11:05 to 11:25. Later than that and you a give the appearance of being an ass. So I got here 11:20-ish thinking even though my friends are virtually always fucking late to everything, at least I wouldn't have long to wait.

*sigh*

Part 2 of this scenario?

We are meeting at Mall of America. For the uninitiated, the Mall of America is...a beast of a place--not for me (I tamed this monster a long time ago), but for people who are not here often, to come here on a Saturday, it's a pain in the ass. Anybody who doesn't come here on a regular basis is a tourist. I expect my friends are experiencing said pain in the ass in their efforts to get to me. I choose to believe that over the notion that they simply do not value my time.

I'm just being nice, though. Pretty clear they don't value my time.

Fucking tourists.

Luckily, there are many distractions here. I'm going to eat ice cream and blame them for my ass getting fat. Then I'm going to the Coach store and buy that colorblock bag that I saw that was only $450 and next time we talk I'm going to whine about my credit card bill. Then Nordstoms Rack, for the rest of my paycheck.

That'll teach 'em...

ISO

2017-02-11T07:59:00.001-06:00

I have this friend...we'll call him Bobby.

We'll call him that because that's what he calls himself.

Real name? No, but who cares?

Bobby is a, "get out and live your life" kind of guy with many hobbies and passions. His defining feature is his willingness to say, "Sure, I'll try that!" to just about anything and sometimes trying a new thing leads to him have a whole new hobby or whole new favorite food or a whole new favorite person that he didn't have a year ago, or even a month ago.

And Bobby posts pictures....lots and lots of pictures. He's excited about stuff, and wants to share. I think that's cool, and I hope he keeps doing it, because it is a reflection of the attitude he has for life, which is the #1 thing I respect about him. He's having fun--more power to him.

1000 years ago (OK...it was actually the late 80's and early 90's. It only seems that long ago...) Bobby and I worked together at a couple of different radio stations in the Midwest. At some point, when we were both working at the same place, someone requested a group photo of the entire staff at the radio station to put on the cover of their weekly magazine. It was an industry publication which consisting entirely of record company ads begging radio music directors to play their new songs, along interviews of radio programmers telling everyone how they get ratings in their particular market. It was real yawn of a thing, unless you were in radio, but we got the cover, so...Woo! We must have been doing something right.

(Note: I'm a former Top 40 Radio Music Director. We never gave a fuck about those industry mag ads, and most Program Directors read the articles for the sole purpose of saying things like, "That would never work in this market." But I digress...)

Staging the photo was a pain in the ass. Just getting us all in the same place at the same time was a hassle because somebody has to be on the air while this is happening, so...how do you do that? I can't remember, to be honest, but we did it, and there we were, on the cover of some industry mag, looking as cool as you can look when you're a bunch of radio jerk-offs in the 90's.

We all got copies of that magazine to take home. I kept mine for a long time--hauled it from place to place as one does with mementos. I don't think I own it anymore, but...I know Bobby does, or at least I know he has the photo because he posted it online!

"Look at us in our 90's glory! How delightful! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! *sigh* Those were the days!"

You know the drill. It's what we do on Throwback Thursday.

Every. Throwback. Thursday.

Today, I had an idea for a post and thought I would like to use the photo. Why not? It's public domain, stuff, and we were public people. No terrifically embarrassing hairstyles or fashions, for the most part. Sure...why not?

I went to Bobby's Facebook page and began scrolling through his pictures, because I knew it was there, somewhere. It had been a while since he posted it, so I figured there would be a lot of scrolling.

Soon, it became clear to me that it wouldn't just be a *lot* of scrolling, it would be, "this might take all day" level of scrolling. Because Bobby is out there...living!

Posting pictures of living!

More pictures!

We craft our online story boards--those of us who indulge, that is--kind of the same way we craft our real lives. Some of us are very careful, some of us less so. Those of us with a bit of skill for presenting make things look easy and good and nice.

Bobby's photos are generally better than others, even though he's not a photographer. He just knows what goes, so to speak--a knack for selling a thought or idea. As such, this makes it look like he has a terrific life. Pics from fly fishing, pics from skiing, pics from the bar--everything good going on has a photo.

You know what? He *does* have a terrific life--just ask him. It's not without struggle, which he will be the first to admit, but he spends great chunks of his time doing "photo-worthy" stuff.

Now, your version of "photo-worthy" may be quite different from his or mine. You might look at his page and think, "Another fucking fish pic," or mine and think, "What's with all these sunsets and liquor bottles?"

You might also think, "Why post photos of *anything* online?

I say, if it brings you joy, share it. Your joy may give someone else joy, and we could all use more of that. I wanna see you happy. If pulling a damn fish out if the water makes you smile, please know that your smile will make me smile. If your pet makes you laugh, it will make somebody else laugh. Wrote a song? Paint a picture? Knit a sock? March on Washington? Let's see it. Invite the "likes". Don't *obsess* over the likes--this isn't an episode of Black Mirror--but put it out there.

Here's the key: You have to *do* the stuff to get the photos. You have to travel to get travel photos. You have to go out with friends to get those pics of you all yucking it up at the bar. You have to get down to your dog's level to get a good photo of your dog. You have to engage in your thing to get photos of the thing, and that is where Bobby has this whole social media game licked--he's out there, living. He's not just talking about it, he's doing it. You want to up your social media game? Up your *life* game and the rest will follow.

BTW, I never did find that pic, but here's one from that era, of my roommate. She sold advertising at the station, and she is pictured here with Man In Zoobas (Josh, one of our other announcers), hanging at the park at a promotion we were doing.

Later that day, my roommate and I would probably use that same aluminum soda can as a pipe. We were young professionals, acting mostly like high school kids. Radio was great for that. Bad habits indulged. Sexy times, even though Zoobas were in existence.

OK, just kidding about not finding the pic.

Bobby found it. It took him a while to find it, too, what with all his pictures. I'm the one who is all "Sunglasses on a cloudy day because I'm Shelly-Fucking-Carr."

Probably nothing to do with the soda can pot pipe hobby. Probably.

(Side note: Nice to see the engineer in the photo--he kept that place on the air with wire hangers, duct tape and faith. All of those people were so nice. I still have the jacket!)

Real Women Are Funny. And A Lot Of Other Things, Too.

2017-01-25T17:00:00.001-06:00

I'm a writer

I'm a humorist.

I'm a girl.

Because these things are true, the importance of someone like Mary Tyler Moore in my life cannot be overstated.

She didn't plan to become an icon, but lucky for me and many others, she did. This allowed her to be present for many important years of our lives: times when we were learning what it meant to be a girl; times when we were wondering if it was OK to be funny while being female; times when we were worried about being single; or times when we were wondering if we could do all of this and somehow maintain our dignity. What about when we needed a role model to see when it was OK to *not* be dignified? Yeah, she was there for that, too.

My favorite memory when I think of Mary Tyler Moore is a time when I was watching an awards show telecast in Nineteen-seventy...I dunno. Television hey-day, if you will. She was up for an award and Carol Burnett was nominated in the same category. They announced a tie. Carol was announced as a winner, gave a short thank you and then opened the envelope to see who the other person was.

It was Mary.

Carol Burnett looked up from that envelope and just said "Mare," as she looked down into the audience and gestured for Mary Tyler Moore to come up and get her award. That's what she called her, and that's all she even needed to say--everybody knew who she was talking about and knew that where went Carol, there was Mary. Perhaps they competed, but at the same time, she were joined, supportive, and appreciative of each other. It was all in good fun.

Together, they taught me a lot about the importance of supporting other women, and, by extension, anyone out there doing something that someone in their demographic doesn't normally try to tackle. In a world where Mary Tyler Moore was criticized and censored for wearing pants instead of a skirt on a TV show, she managed to still be smart, funny, and modern. Working within pre-set boundaries of a male dominated business, she excelled.

This is what I grew up to.

When she became Mary Richards on TV, she went from being a TV wife to a woman making it on her own. There was no divorce story line, no, "her husband died, so here she is all by herself." She was single, but it wasn't presented as some tragedy. It was so freeing and refreshing. There were story lines with men in them, but the real meat of the show was not her as a spouse or girlfriend, but her as a career person with her friends and her co-workers. They didn't criticize the idea of having a spouse or boyfriend, it was just secondary to having her own life as she chose to live it.

By the time I was in my own broadcasting career, it was well established that women did not require a male counterpart to be OK in this world, and part of that was due to Mary having the courage to do that on TV. Funny, intelligent women paved the way, and allowed me to push boundaries of my own. It's a debt I can never repay.

Tonight, I'll lift a glass to that woman, and all the women she helped by being her. Our female icons are perhaps more important now than ever--great examples of what we can do if we roll up our sleeves and work intelligently within our own situations, however limiting they may seem.

Safe travels, MTM, and thank you.

Because I Don't Have Enough Stuff To Worry About Already

2016-12-26T22:20:00.001-06:00

A thing I started noticing about myself (after the fact, so of course there is guilt):

When people say, "Have a good evening," as we're leaving work, or they give me some holiday greeting at the store, 8 times out of 10, I just say, "Thanks," go on with my day, and don't return the greeting.

Is this a thing I'll go to hell for? It better not be. After all the shit I've pulled in my years, to burn for all eternity over some bullshit instead of the *real* sins of my past would be incredibly disappointing.

My coworkers are not required to tell me to have a good night, they're just nice like that.

But let's face it: If "nice" becomes a requirement for getting paid, I am screwed.

I suppose I could make it a habit to always return the greeting, whatever-the-fuck it is, but damnit! WHY do I have to pretend to care if my co-worker has a good evening, just because they're pretending to care if I do?

Is "Have a nice day" an act of aggression? Sure feels like it sometimes.

The other day, I was at a dollar store and the clerk who was ringing us up was all in everyone's face with the "Merry Christmas" like she was trying to start a fight with a liberal.

As a "real" liberal, not the phony kind they describe on Fox News, I was too smart to take the bait. Also, I don't care if people say Merry Christmas. Because I'm a real liberal.

I may not be passionate about "the reason for the season," but I'm also so completely indifferent to it that I don't give a fuck if you say Merry Christmas instead of Happy...Generic Whatever.

You be you, and all that.

A lot of people just say a mindless, "You, too!" when someone insists that the rest of their day be wonderful and special.

I've done the, "You, too!" thing as a response, and more than a couple of times found myself looking like an ass saying, "You, too!" after the person *didn't* say "Have a nice day!"

"Hey lady, you forgot your card in the chip reader!"

"You, too!"

DOH!

Anyway...if you could all just tone down the aggressive pleasantries, that would be great. You've got shit to do. I've got shit to do. Nobody wants a war.

Christmas: Fake It Til You Make It

2016-12-24T20:15:00.002-06:00

How easy is it to get into a funk on Christmas Eve?

Very.

It doesn't matter if tomorrow I'll be sitting at dinner with my kids, and doing all the things we usually do on Christmas day. It doesn't matter if I'll be driving out to see my parents and siblings next week. Today, I was alone.

And I look around the house and think that this place looks like someone lives here who doesn't give a shit.

I didn't decorate for Christmas.

I had good reasons.

Several.

All of those reasons were perfectly valid 2 weeks ago, and, they are still valid now.

I didn't think it would weigh on me, but, weirdly, having not decorated might be the thing that pushed me into a funk.

I go for walks in the evening, in the neighborhood, or at the mall (because I'm old) and you know what? It's beautiful. All of the trees lit up, and the way everyone has suddenly decided to decorate so tastefully this year (for a change)...it looks lovely.

Even though I think it's mostly bullshit, it is beautiful.

I don't think giving gifts is bullshit--I like that part. I don't care about getting them, but I do love giving them. I like seeing everybody and spending time with the people I love. All of that stuff is nice--what I think is bull is probably the same stuff you think is bull: Frantic retailers in a panic, using a sales pitch that seems to imply that you HAVE TO buy the most ridiculous shit (all made in China) because your Christmas won't be happy without it, or, every single charity in your town reminding you that it is the season of giving, so give, already, or, the whiny people who think there is a "War on Christmas" even though we spend literally 2 months out of the year talking about almost nothing but Christmas.

You know...the usual.

Also? We've all been in a bit of a funk beyond the usual seasonal funk--that's a very real thing. It's been a tough year for many of us. Fucking David Bowie died, OK? That's how 2016 STARTED. And it did not get better.

I guess we need a little Lovely, to soften the crap of the season. We need to make it pretty and dress it up. We need lights that twinkle and a little tree to put gifts under, and we need Grandma Gertrude's antique red and green table runner on the table. (Side note: I never met Grandma Gertrude. She was my husband's mother, who died before he and I ever met. But I have her table runner, for some reason, and damnit, it's mine now.)

So guess what I'm doing? Alone in my house, on Christmas Eve? Even though it's ridiculous...?

I'm putting up my little Christmas tree.

I'm putting up my tree even though I'm alone and when people come over to open presents tomorrow, they'll be here for all of a couple hours and probably won't care one way or the other.

It's all of 4 feet tall (if even) and there honestly isn't any room for any presents under there unless it's just a bunch of little blue boxes from Tiffany, or something, so, I'm gonna stack them around the tree like I've been building that pile for months, even though I literally just wrapped all of them today.

Fake it til you make it...right?

But seriously, folks....

I'm OK.

Some people are not OK.

Some people don't have anyone coming over tomorrow.

Some people can't fake it til they make it. They've got mental health or addiction issues, or their families don't accept them, or they have no home, much less a fucking Christmas tree.

That's not me trying to shame you (or myself) into feeling bad about being in a funk at Christmas when you have a roof and food and your health. That's just me saying, be kind to yourself tonight. Be kind to others.

We live in a time where we all have our own little personal shows to produce on Facebook or Twitter and Instagram--the shows that have us looking pretty and holding it together all the time. Even people who take bad pictures of their food are happy with the food. Good for them. But it's all for show. That fabulous, badly photographed feast maybe blew their whole food budget for a week and they got into a fight with their spouse over it, but that stuff isn't online. Just the good stuff is showing.

So know that nobody is perfect, despite how well-produced their little online show is.

And understand that you're OK.

And if you need someone to talk to, let's talk.

Flake-y

2016-12-12T09:22:00.000-06:00

I am a typical Minnesotan and so, I make jokes every winter about the misery of shoveling snow.

Poor me. Outside in the cold. Shoveling. Hard work. My arms are Jello. I can barely lift my beer.

Honestly?

I enjoy shoveling snow. I might even love it. It's my flaky little secret.

Don't tell Mother Nature. Too much of a good thing isn't necessarily a good thing.

There is something about a winter activity. Maybe I just like the high tech clothing...? I mean, somebody had to design the stuff that keeps me sweating when it's 5 degrees outside. My coat is a marvel of layers and linings and pockets and zippers and hooks. I have shirts and pants specifically designed to be an under layer (because wicking is a thing) and I have fully lined over-layers. I have three different hats for "not too bad" days and a one trusty hat for "better wear the good hat" days. Ditto for gloves. I own a thing called a Turtle Fur Gaiter. I own Smart Wool socks and three different kinds of footwear made not for fashion, but for being out in the snow. We can be ugly out there, because it's ugly out there.

I often joke that the state motto of Minnesota should be changed from "Étoile du Nord" to "It's not cold, you're underdressed."

Northern people also have the bragging/martyr thing we do where we talk about how much snow we moved all by our damn selves. We post pictures of snow banks where our driveways are supposed to be, and later, post pictures of the shoveled out driveway.

I have, on this very blog, posted a picture of me standing outside in my cold weather gear, with barely any skin showing, drinking a Schell's Chimneysweep. I had spent hours digging out from a major snow storm in Duluth and I earned that damn beer. In fact, a major part of our motivation that day was digging out the driveway enough to get a car out...to go to the liquor store. We achieved that, then came back and finished the rest, which took another 2-3 hours using both a snow blower and a shovel.

Mother Nature does not mess around.

There are people who live here who aren't into it as much as I am. I remember a few winters ago, there was a lady who lived across the street from us who had a job as a cheerleader for the Minnesota Vikings. We had a bad storm, lots of snow, and there was a guy with a truck outside, helping pull people out of their parking spots because the snow plows had basically buried their cars. That cheerleader was his girlfriend, and she was there with him, talking to people about the snow, as you do. He was wearing Carhartt from head to toe. She was wearing skinny jeans with stylish fuzzy boots and a white puffy vest over a long sleeve t-shirt. She had on these really great hand-knit white mittens that I remember well.

Guess which one of them had to spend most of their time inside the truck to keep warm?

Hey, if I could get away with it, I'd do that, too.

On second thought, nah...I don't think I would.

I am a big fan of the ta-dah. I like taking on a task that looks brutal, quietly doing all the work and then saying, "See what I did all by myself? Ta-Dah!" Fairly typical of a Look-At-Me personality like mine.

You get a particular kind of ache in your body when you do a strenuous outdoor activity in the winter--coming in from the cold, you feel wiped out but it feels good somehow. As your body warms up and you're easing yourself into a chair or a hot bath, the creaking and moaning noises you make are a sign of a job well done, or time well spent.

Beyond that, though...I like the fact that it's an activity I usually do by myself because I get a lot of thinking done. Owing to the short winter days, it's often nighttime when I'm outside and there is no other sound except the shovel finding the concrete, or my feet crunching the snow. The conversations I have in my head are enlightening, and the repetitive nature of the work is meditative.

Yes, I dare say I enjoy it.

Don't worry, though. I'll still make noises like I hate it, so they don't revoke my Minnesota residency--you have to pretend winter annoys you or they look at you funny around here.

IRL

2016-12-08T16:16:00.000-06:00

Most thinking people have a love/hate thing with social media, and I'm no exception.

I like it because it reminds me a lot of my radio days--a little microphone I can pop on, say some smart-ass comment and then shut off again.

When I did that in radio, it would generate phone calls and/or ratings--now, it appears, the goal is to generate "likes" or hearts or whatever. Both of those things affect me equally. In radio, I got good ratings and the station owner made a lot of money. On Facebook, I'm sort of funny and Mark Zuckerberg makes a lot of money.

You're welcome, both of you.

It's fairly easy to generate responses--I've been doing that my whole professional life, and if I'm being honest, I will admit that I do it for fun in my non-professional life sometimes, too. Kick the hornet's nest when things seem boring--you probably won't die, unless you're living a real life version of the movie My Girl.

The slight difference is that radio is local (or at least the radio stations where I worked were local) and social media is world wide. You have to be a bit more judicious with your kicking when you're kicking the globe.

To narrow it somewhat, and to prvide a haven for myself, I treat Facebook as "local" and only have people that I know in real life as friends there, with a few minor exceptions. You'll be inspected if you send me a friend request (I virtually never take the first step and 'friend' anyone because I'm a horrible person and I don't care, plus, all my good friends are already there, so why do I need more?) If you friend request me on Facebook, I will start by looking at your profile to make sure you aren't a RWNJ--zero tolerance for that. This is why I ignore a vast amount of friend requests from cousins of mine. I'll also think about who you know that I know--it has to be somebody that I like. If we have nobody in common, you can't even reach me--not a particularly strict thing, but I don't care to deal with complete strangers on Facebook so I keep my privacy settings that way.

I admit I don't understand people with very, very private Facebook accounts. what's the point? If I felt the need for absolute privacy, I wouldn't have a Facebook account to begin with. Even stranger? The people with the fake accounts. Hell, I can't even justify one account and you have how many, under how many different names? Oof...how about none? Have you tried none?

My philosophy (Doesn't that sound impressive? Philosophy. Jeezuz...) makes Facebook the "friendly" place for generic G-Rated or PG-13 or PG-17 rated humor, but not much politics, which mirrors actual conversations I have with real-life friends, only the conversations we have offline (where our moms can't hear us) use the word "fuck" with much greater frequency and are probably peppered with a lot more dick jokes. We're adults, after all.

Also? Offline, we're probably drinking and yelling over each other. That's how we do.

Twitter is a bit of a different animal--at least for me. I don't know most of those people and won't ever know them, which is fine, for the most part. It's all brief interactions, like if two people who don't know each both other witness something crazy and they look at each other to make sure they actually saw what they just saw.

"ZOMG!! Did you SEE that fucking bald eagle swoop down and take that guy's toupee? CRAZY! Amirite?"

That kind of thing. Only it's mostly politics and football.

Twitter is where I link the blog because none of my family is there (except that one sane one) and some of them would pitch a fit about being called "RWNJs." Oh, I'll still call them that, but for some reason, they don't think this blog exists unless I put a link to it on my Facebook profile. Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Our little non-secret.

All things considered? I prefer the Twitter interactions. I can definitely tell how my desire to connect with like-minded people drives me to Twitter every day, and makes me stay there well past the time I should have put the phone down and done something productive, but I'm like that in real life, too. I love it when I have a connection with someone and we can talk and talk and talk. I am perfectly content to have those good conversations go all night.

I find I run into the same issue online as I do everywhere IRL--I'm more interested than other people are.

That's not to say I'm more *interesting* than other people--I'm definitely not--just that I gobble up information like I'm starved for it.

I'm interested. Tell me more.

Always more.

People online and people in real life--they don't have that kind of time. They have to go let the dog out. They have commitments that don't involve meaningful dialogue. They've got some TV shows to watch while they eat dinner off the coffee table and grunt barely audible noises to their mates.

You know...real life stuff.

This is not what my inner voice tells me, though. Inside my head I think, "Those lucky, beautiful people, going off to their perfect lives with their loving mates," while I sit and contemplate...stuff. And drink.

Poor me...

In truth they're probably just...watching TV while sitting behind a plateful of hotdish, but, you know how it is when you're an insecure person--in your head, everyone is having fun except you.

I saw a great quote somewhere (Online, OK? It was online. That's where I see pretty much everything.). It was, "Stop worrying about people who don't worry about you." While I'm sure the person who meme'd that thing was thinking more of false friends, I've seized it as a thing to tell myself when I get worried about social media.

Yes, I worry about social media.

Oh, I don't worry about YOU and what YOU do on social media--unless you're one of those nut jobs with fake accounts. I do worry about those people. Mostly, though, I just worry about how I'm reacting to things on social media. I think things like, "Gee, I thought that joke was funnier," or any of the dozens of other "Why don't people like me?" statements that have been bouncing around in my head since 1978.

In in real life, I don't really give a rat's ass about anybody who doesn't have my actual phone number.

In real life, I think 87% of viral videos are stupid.

In real life, I think 96% of political memes are dumb--unless they are conservative, then it's more like 99.99%.

In real life, I follow "commie lib" progressive news because that's who I am, even though I have the ability to play nice with my RWNJ acquaintances online.

In real life, I'm probably sitting in front of the TV with food, but the TV is off because I'm on my phone, switching back and forth between Twitter and Facebook, while occasionally logging in to check flights to expensive warm places, or looking at real estate.

In real life, I'm telling myself to put the fucking phone down and go outside.

Score

2016-12-07T15:52:00.003-06:00

I grew up in Western North Dakota.

This in no way qualifies me to make any statements about the Dakota Access Pipeline.

Further disclosure: my father, for 30+ years, made a living and put food on our table by hauling crude oil in a truck. You see, the oil industry didn't just show up in North Dakota recently--it's been there for years. My parents were married in 1958 and my father started his job around the same time. He came home smelling of oil. During one of the downturns in the industry in the region, he was laid off (loyalty is a one-sided thing to a corporation) and ended up hauling farm-related things--grain, fertilizer, etc--for the last several years of his career before retiring.

When I think about, and talk about DAPL, I do it from a weird place. I'm a white woman, aged 50, raised for 18 years in a place where white people--and this is the nicest possible way I can say this--felt no need to be kind to Native American people. There were reservations around us, and those reservations were generally looked upon with disdain, at least by my parent's circle of friends. Or hell, maybe it was just my family--it's all a blur anymore. That was 40 years ago. But I do know that I've heard fine Christian women and men say things like, "nothing so useless as a drunk Indian," (that one sticks out in my head for some reason) and many other, similar things, while their friends and acquaintances nodded in agreement. This was the norm when I was growing up.

I didn't think much about this. I felt didn't have to--I was not a person who experienced it, and in typical fashion ('Merica! Fuck yeah!), didn't worry about it. I moved away from there and had very little contact with anyone who felt like that, nor anyone who was on the receiving end of that racist bullshit. I'm not sure I even recognized it as racist bullshit until one day many years later.

I was sitting at lunch at an outdoor table with three or four other women from my work. We were in Edina, MN, a "nice" suburb, where moneyed people lived, at an office building of a major corporation where we all worked. I don't remember how we got to the subject, but I remember one woman, an Indian (from India) admitted that she had seen people in her family behave in a racist way and asked if any of us had experienced any situations in our families like that.

Suddenly, I remembered. I remembered all of my youth and going to the reservation to play basketball games against their school, and their facilities were nowhere near as nice as ours so we hated to go there. We we snobs about it. I remembered the one family that lived in our town that was native, and how people had a certain opinion of them and when anyone had a positive experience with one of them, they would say things like, "He's *actually* pretty nice," as if that was not normal behavior. I remembered, for years, people saying to avoid the reservation, that it was a bad place, with bad people. I remember being shocked when I found out one of my high school classmates had moved there. I remembered the time someone quizzed my brother, a park ranger at an historic fort, about how the natives had been treated by the white people who came there to settle, and I remember him downplaying it like it was not that bad. I remembered the person who uttered the words about the "useless drunk Indian".

I remembered all of it, and I told her, "My family--and really a lot of people in that part of the state--have a real bad view of Native Americans there." I relayed some stories.

I didn't mention that I had, myself, held certain opinions. I felt myself above it--I had moved away from that life and the people who were like that. I left because I wasn't like them. I didn't feel like that.

There was the time on a morning radio show, years before that sunny little lunch in Edina, when my co-host and I were talking about obscure laws that were still on the books. It was one of those morning show bits that people drag out from time to time because it's reliably ridiculous and gets a laugh. For some reason, I decided to use that live mic to bring up an obscure law that I knew about in the state of Montana, 4 miles from where I grew up. The law states, in effect: "Seven or more Indians are considered a raiding or war party... and you can shoot them."

(That law is still on the books, by the way.)

I talked about that on the air--about how ridiculous it was. What happened after that? Well, I got into a shit storm with the local tribe who was pissed that I should say such a thing, even though I was discussing it as an absurdity. I was so angry with them for being mad at me for "nothing". After all, I was on their side, I thought. Me, the liberal lady on the morning show at a classic rock station--the exception to every other fucking person in that building, and *I* was the one being called a racist? Unreal. That one burned. I was pissed off.

So I didn't like them for a good long while. They had done me wrong, got me yelled at by my boss, blah, blah, blah.

Now, in the interest of fairness, I should mention that I didn't need their complaints to get me yelled at. I was an aggressive personality on the air--I felt I had to be, as a woman trying to carve out a place in a business where the women sounded alike, to me. Women on the radio back then had one job, and that job was to laugh at the man's jokes. I was brazen in my disregard of that. I was funnier and smarter than they were--why the fuck were they not tasked with laughing at *my* jokes?

All of this was quite controversial at a classic rock station, which is an incredibly conservative place. To add the the misery, I had a hatred for the format and no understanding of people who would listen to it--classic rock was never my thing, and honestly never will be--I'm a new music person. Somehow, I was popular enough among listeners (not too much--just enough), but the rest of the staff couldn't stand me and were happy to throw me under the bus. The boss at the time was probably itching for a reason to yell at me. Offending a major client (casino) was just the thing.

I spent an hour on the phone with a representative of the tribe, pleading my case. He was not moved. The next day I grudgingly spoke my non-apology apology ("sorry if you were offended, etc,") into that same fucking microphone and after a cooling off period, went back to my usual life of not thinking about natives. I had no opinion, and felt no reason to develop one since I was never in contact with any, that I was aware of. Fairly typical behavior for a person not directly affected by racism.

Occasionally, a thing would happen that involved natives in a clash, like when the University of North Dakota changed the name of their school mascot from The Fighting Sioux, or when some dingbat white folks at that same school had t-shirts printed up depicting, you guessed it, a "drunken Indian," in part because they didn't accept the name change. I could always see where the natives were coming from and I could empathize. My argument was always that yes, white people came here and defeated them in war, which is historically accurate, but ever since then, we've been trying to demoralize, which is completely unnecessary and cruel.

Fast forward many years, and DAPL is happening. Family and friends (all from North Dakota, naturally) on social media begin using their platform to call bullshit to the tribe, post "news" pieces about how wrong they were to be doing that they were doing, talking about how no one has any respect for law enforcement, and, well...the usual shit you see the opposition do any time there is a protest.

The local voices were saying completely different things than the national and international observers.

I sat here and said nothing at all.

Part of that was because I don't particularly believe in social media activism. Sure, I'll spout off an opinion now and again, or point and laugh at something ridiculous, but it's in the interest of conversation or telling a joke, not because I think it will make a difference. I believe the most accurate observation about social media activism is the cartoon of the plane full of "Likes" (thumbs up symbols from Facebook, in this case) arrived in storm-ravaged Haiti. Completely worthless. So I don't use Facebook in that way and don't do much or any of that on Twitter, either. I didn't "Je suis Paris", didn't do the Ice Bucket Challenge, and I have never added a flag overlay on my profile picture.

Another reason why I said nothing was because if I have learned one thing in this election year, it's, "Don't engage." Don't get into it with anyone--people who are more angry than you will rip you to shreds in a heartbeat. There are people posting other people's home address on "kill boards" and all kinds of insane shit--not worth it.

But even beyond those two usual reason, I found myself unable to lock in to how I felt about DAPL. It's one thing not to talk about it, but quite another to find yourself so disengaged that you can't pick a side.

I have no loyalty to the people who side with the oil company (save for the previously mentioned parental employment situation). I do not align with oil companies on the political spectrum. Not my thing. I do drive a car, though, and I suppose I use a a typical American amount of stuff made from petroleum products, so I'm your basic hip-hip-hippy-hypocrite. This doesn't mean I have to like the fact that they seem to do whatever the fuck they want with little concern for the environment and we tax-payers support them with incentives to supplement their billions in profits. Screw that.

I also have no real reason not to believe what the natives or other observers were saying, other than my own history of mistrust--of being "on their side" and still getting kicked in the head. I suppose that's the shit that catches you. Not a one of us is free from our own emotions.

Perhaps it is a sign of news overload. I've stuffed my face with so much information that I'm unable to form my own thoughts anymore.

It just seems so...surreal. My mind isn't clicking in to it. In an exhausting year, it's just another thing to exhaust me. My cynicism says, "What fucking difference does it make?" even after the Army Corps of Engineers pulled the permit and decided they needed to fully examine other options for the pipeline.

There is a guy I follow on Twitter--political talk and humor, mostly, with a touch of music. All the same stuff as me, and he's a college professor. He's funny and smart and quick. After the election and ever since, he's been quite despondent. His jokes are now all a version of, "Why bother exercising--nothing matters anymore." That's where I am, too, although I don't really share that online anywhere, and I do exercise because I'd just be wallowing and huge if I didn't.

It's not even that I was ride or die for Hillary, because I didn't feel that I was. I thought she made sense as the choice and I did vote for her, but again...didn't change my profile pic to the "H" overlay, or anything like that.

When the news came out about the Corps re-routing or re-studying or pulling permits, or whatever they did at DAPL, people were celebrating, and I was over here thinking, "This doesn't mean anything."

I am tired of it all being about who gets points on social media (and, my sincere apologies to Chris Hardwick--your points are good points. All of them).

Of course one can argue that water is more important than "points" and racism is a serious problem--both of those things are very true. But where are we having these discussions? Just talking amongst ourselves on social media...we accomplish about as much as the two old guys talking politics at the local café over a cup of coffee.

Some people got up off their asses and blocked a bridge and a thing happened--that's good. They unfortunately attracted an element of moronic "do goods" from out of state, looking to score some points. Many of those idiots were horribly unprepared and are now holed up in high school gymnasiums and people's private homes because, oh, by the way, it's fucking COLD during a blizzard in North Dakota, and people die.

Our rush to score is a real brain-eraser.

I can't stop shaking my head and rolling my eyes at us.

'Merica...

And Still...

2016-12-02T18:10:00.000-06:00

I found this old post while cruising an analytics page. I noticed someone was archive diving and you know me--better check and make sure there isn't something awful floating around with my name attached to it.

Yes, I know the internet is forever, but I do have the ability to "unpublish" things, unlike, say, Starship. They can never take back, "We Built This City." That shit is out there, for all eternity.

The beauty of anonymous blogging cannot be overstated.

Anyway...here's a thing I wrote about a pot of beans.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Always

Last night was Fabulous Burrito Night at our house. That's when, after having spent the day cooking insanely delish and perfectly seasoned pinto beans for the purpose of scarfing them in bean burritos, we feast like a bunch of starving animals, slurping beverages, going back for seconds, thirds and fourths.

About mid-afternoon, those beans start to smell so good you want to cry, mostly because you know that they're not done cooking yet, so eating them would be a bit, uh...crunchy. When they finally reach textural perfection, I lay out all the other tortilla stuffings and sauces and call the kids to start building, an announcement which is followed by the usual happy noises and sounds of feet scurrying to the kitchen.

My daughter's friend, who was visiting, asked, "Do you guys always eat like this?" I told him no, that beans from scratch were usually a weekend project but he clarified: "No, I mean, are you guys always this laid back?"

It seems that at his house, what he called "family time" or, "dinner time" was so formal a thing that people barely spoke to one another while it was happening. The idea that there would be laughter and joy and relaxation associated with it seemed novel to him.

I couldn't imagine it.

Most of us (grown-up) spend a lot of time out in the world in some kind of work situation in which we have to dress a certain way, be careful not to say certain things, arrive at a certain time, leave at a certain time, etc. Even if your work life is fairly informal, there are still expectations associated with it--even someone who paints Velvet Elvises for a living has some kind of schedule, some kind of deadline. If they didn't, they probably wouldn't produce enough to continue in that line of work. A guy who plays guitar in a coffee shop still has to get to the coffee shop--you have to show up, and you have to have some kind of tangible product worth people giving you money for.

Life is like that. I can't imagine why anyone would insist that family would have to be like that, too.

Here are the people who know you better than anybody--They know that you like to put off doing the dishes until the last possible second, or that you run around in your bra in the morning while looking for a shirt to wear, or that spend hours on the phone loudly kvetching about crazy people, or your plants are neglected, or your cat needs a bath. They know the very core of you. They live with you, after all--they have a front row seat to all of your bad habits, wrinkles and warts. Also, all of your triumphs.

Never mind the fact that I think of food as something to be celebrated. What I want to know is, why would you apply first-date formality to any meal or time spent with the people who know you best? Why pretend you don't know everything there is to know about each other already? Isn't that just denying yourself the chance to delight in your family members victories, or laugh at their funny foibles, or help them through the low times? Don't you WANT to be that resource for them? I mean...who would be better at it than someone who knows the very core of you?

I believe very strongly that my home is my sanctuary. It is the one place I can truly be myself, never to worry about what people think about me, what they're going to say about me, am I going to get fired for doing that, etc. This notion doesn't strip away the necessity of treating everyone with kindness--in fact, my home is the one place where I can be as unabashedly kind as I want to be, like, spending an entire day lovingly preparing for the business of watching my kids and their friends play Guitar Hero while we all sit around eating burritos on the living room furniture (gasp!). I will never, never, ever sacrifice that for any formality, any dreamt-up "have to" or "must". I don't believe in "have to" or "must" except as it pertains to the importance of being good to other people.

So, to answer the question....Yes, we DO always eat like that. We do everything like that. I wish everybody did.

Positives

2016-11-30T19:19:00.000-06:00

I wish I had deep thoughts about what to say when I hear my neighbor yelling at his girlfriend.

The guy is a straight up jack-ass, which you may have determined based on the fact that he feels the need to yell at his girlfriend.

It's not the yelling, though. Definitely a "tone" thing.

I can't actually hear the words he says most days, I just hear that, "I'm smarter than you, you stupid woman" thing in his voice and it makes my skin crawl.

People, I've been dealing with that guy my whole life. He thinks he is smarter because of the penis.

Yes, it's that guy. That fucking guy.

Never mind the fact that I live in a building with only 4 apartments, where there are no strangers, and this guy doesn't feel inspired to say hello if I run into him in the hall. All of the rest of us say hello. Some of us spend a half-hour catching up every time we run into each other--it's that kind of building. We're nice. Well, most of us are nice--I have my days.

I can overlook the hallway slight, but not the tone. Not the tone.

That guy and his most unfortunate girlfriend live across the hall from me, and we share a wall, which gives me unique access to two sounds: 1) Sometimes their cat runs up and down the hall meowing, which gets my cats very excited, and 2) I get to hear the jackass take that tone with his girlfriend.

What she does to "deserve" it (Hint: It's nothing) I'll never know, but about once a month, the man unleashes a lecture on that girl.

Earlier this week I was reminded of the mildly amusing (read: sad because it's true) joke that I found on the internet somewhere: "Lord, please grant me the confidence of a mediocre white man."

I love that one.

I think, if only I could be that clever and find a mildly amusing thing of my own to say, or even just think, when I hear the tone, either next door, or directed at me.

Actually, fuck it, I don't need to be that clever. Neither does my neighbor. We can be smart or dumb--neither situations warrants "The Tone". That's the simple, blunt truth of it. No part of your day to day should involve someone who claims to "love" you talking to you as if you are a moron.

The fact that I wish I was better talking about abuse just makes me the perfect mate for an abuser. Sick.

I think. I feel. I know I'm flawed and want to do better. Those things seem like positives--they are. They should be, anyway. In the wrong hands, though...they make you a target of some mediocre shithead.

Something + Something + Something + An Egg On It

2016-11-20T16:42:00.003-06:00

Why is it that we look at other peoples food pics and think they are lame?

Maybe that's just me. I think your food pics are lame.

My food pics are lame as well, I just know a thing or two about good lighting and angles and framing. This makes my food pics infinitesimally less lame than some people. (Probably not a measurable amount).

The photos I take that don't look good? You never see. My friend Phil had someone ask him how he takes such good photos and his answer was, "By taking a lot of shitty photos." This is exactly correct.

Also? Red plates. I dunno. The damn things look good in natural light.

Today I'm having "rustic" roast beef hash with an egg on it.

This is a perfect (and perfectly easy) thing to do to look sort of impressive. Something + something + something + an egg on top = Eat That.

'Egg on it' a new/old trend we can all appreciate, isn't it?

One time I was standing at Andrew Zimmern's food truck at Loring Park while watching Dessa (just dropping names, now...) and who should be standing there but the man himself, so I asked, "What's good?"

I expected him to say, "All of it!" and of course he fucking did, it's his food truck.

Anyway, I settled on...Crispy Pork Belly With Green Papaya Salad, Chiles, Lime, and? An egg on it.

Glorious. Pork belly, amirite?

You should just put eggs on stuff. Do it.

Example: shredded brussel sprouts + onions + bacon. Fry that up in a pan and what? Put a fried egg on top. Insane.

Next example: Bell peppers + onion + mushroom + broccoli. Fry that up in a pan, drop a fried egg on top. Amazing.

Loco Moco...maybe the ultimate With An Egg On Top thing. Hells yes.

Avocado Toast. Egg on top. Die happy.

This dish: "Rustic" just means I don't like uniform chopping and I'm sure as hell not going to bother throwing all this stuff in the grinder like my mother used to do with the Sunday roast leftovers (a fond memory, though...)

Roast beef, potatoes and onion.

And an egg on it.

Eat it.

It's Like Drunk Tweeting, Only Longer

2016-11-11T04:55:00.000-06:00

Not sure how many days in a row I've had this particular headache but I'll chalk this one up to "tension" and/or "stress" and go for the Fireball Whiskey instead of the pain reliever.

What am I saying? Fireball Whiskey IS a pain reliever!

You can find Fireball Whiskey in the cordials section of your local liquor store, which would seem to indicate that it is more like schnapps than whiskey, but for my purposes, that's OK.

Last Thanksgiving I carried a flask of Fireball to a remote campsite in the Adirondacks while my fellow hikers carried cans of beer. Fools. The flask in question was actually a water filtration reservoir that I was supposed to be using for emergency water. Oops.

I'm a nice person, so I did allow them to throw some of those stupid, heavy cans of beer into my pack to carry, even though I was apparently the only one with brains enough to go with "hard" liquor instead of beer for that trip. What's another pound, right? When we got to the camp, we were met by younger, more athletic hikers who had carried up a couple of glass growlers full of their favorite brew. I felt lazy for bringing a puny flask.

I have found it handy post-election to tell people, while in the throws of some heated online discussion about whatever, that I'm drinking Fireball and therefore laughing at every fucking thing I read and hear. They get a little less angry at me for being so wildly liberal.

FYI, I'm not wildly liberal, I'm just regular liberal. That's the kind of lib that the right claim doesn't exist, but I assure you, we're here.

When I'm drinking Fireball I get to this nice euphoric state where things are good and everything amuses me. I start reading things out loud, even if I'm the only person in the room, because whatever it is I'm reading is so damn amusing, it must be shared.

The cats look at me funny.

I don't care.

(Since we're talking, reading things out loud is really the best way to enjoy a thing someone has written, especially poetry. Try it.)

Fireball Whiskey. Makes me listen to music "better", and makes me write worse.

Listening to...? Del Amitri. Which I do sometimes, but not a lot. I'm not a nostalgic person, and sadly, Del Amitri albums are all...(*sob*)...older records now. But...Fireball. I seek out some warm, happy comfort.

(Short break while we get all serious, cuz you know she's not a real drunk chick if she doesn't get serious at some point: I really do dig Del Amitri. I'll pull some adjectives out of the air for you--let's see how I do: Accessible? Listenable? Thoughtful. Clever. Melodic. It's good stuff. You notice the guitar work a bit more while you're drinking and the particulars of the vocals. It's different drunk than while sober. More Del Amitri, please, and thank you. Want me to tell you about that time when I was working nights at a Top 40 station when "Here and Now" was released? Yeah. Totally rigged several nights of one of those 'call in and vote' radio shows in their favor because what a great fucking song. I tell my radio friends (and this might not mean anything to you non-radio people, so go ahead and skip to the next paragraph) that I would always pot up the fades of Del Amitri songs while playing them on the air because there was good stuff hiding in those fades. Ya faded too soon! Guess we can apply that statement to a lot of things.)

Because I am currently learning/studying French, I have the keyboard on my phone set to French language and it keeps correcting "Amitri" to "amitié". This is, of course, very amusing to me because of the Fireball.

I started sending drunk texts, in French, to people who don't speak French, and tell them, "Oops, sorry, I've had like 6 shots of Fireball!" as if I normally send texts in French, just not to them.

I'm feeling much better. Clearly I needed the laugh. We all did.

Thanks Fireball.