Monthly Archives: May 2015

Violence and feminism

Yeah, Wendy is right. I was muddling together two topics in the last really big post. There are two separate issues: the interplay between a husband/wife (I’m being hetero/cis-centric here) and the interplay between men and women in terms of compensation for their labor on the open market. I’m muddying them and that makes it hard to follow. It, err made sense in my head. (This is why I don’t write for publication.)

Hispanic and Indigenous and Black women are kept in poverty through systematic means. I’m not saying that a specific person is to blame. I’m saying that we have a systemic problem where we do not value people as we should. This is a problem.

What should be done about it? That’s fucking complicated. But as long as Hispanic women are making 53% of what white men make we have a problem.

Noah thinks we need to have more of a plan before we shake things up. I can see why he thinks that. He lives in a very carefully ordered world. He makes specific products for specific markets and he needs those people to want to be invested in his ideas/plans.

I see that. Makes sense. He is doing a particular thing, namely trying to be successful in the current capitalist system.

I don’t see a way for this system to ever be fair. No, I don’t know what the alternatives are. I don’t know what we should do to solve all of the problems. But we need to stop acting like a significant portion of the globe deserves to be kept beneath the feet of white people.

White supremacy has simply got to fucking end. We are not better. If you look at the history of white people we are not nice people. We are not more pure. We are not more kind. We are not more worthy. We are just people.

For a very long time in this country we have had a system set up to make things work out best for white men. When things didn’t go well for the white men they would kill whoever was in their way.

Yes, yes there are murderers in every single race. I get it. I know. But would you like me to break down the ratio of prisoners in our country by race? White people do more than our share. We are disproportionately represented in the population and we pay for our crimes the least often.

Not. Fucking. Ok.

Why do I think the Silk Road guy should go to jail? Because how many millions of Black men are in jail because they sold drugs. He is not fucking more worthy of a light sentence. Do I think that all the Black men deserve their sentences? Good grief no.

But we are where we are. Unless you want to turn around and release millions of Black men fuck you and your sympathy for a rich white dude.

It would not be physically possible for me to have less sympathy.

Which brings me back to violence. And revenge, I suppose.

I’m ok with shouting at people. That’s the difference for me. Shouting is raised volume. Yelling is raised inflection and not necessarily about volume. (In my little head.) I’ve spent the last week reading a book about abusive men. Raising your voice is one of those questionable things.

I know people who are just about appalled by the volume of my voice on a regular basis. Many of those people are ok hitting their kids.

I find that… remarkable. Why do people tell me to hit my kids all the damn time? They tell me it isn’t ok to yell. I should hit the kid instead.

We live on different planets. My kids don’t flinch when I shout at them. Ok, occasionally… but not usually. We are loud all the time. It’s our normal. They don’t hear a shout and flinch like they know they are in trouble.

Frankly the kids flinch more when I lower my voice and say something with intensity. They don’t mind volume. They mind me sounding scary.

I sounded scary/mean earlier today. Shanna is obsessed with Minecraft to the point where she is becoming quite the little self absorbed asshole about it. No one is allowed to talk about anything else in her presence or she will talk louder to drown out your conversation. I’m done with this shit.

I kind of growled at her that it isn’t ok. You are not the only person in the room. You can stop acting like your thoughts are the only important thoughts in the world. I was harsher when I specifically said that she has to stop talking over her sister. I tolerate it a lot when she does it to me, but she’s really effectively silencing Calli and that’s just not fucking ok.

You don’t get to drown out your sister. That’s not acceptable.

I’m walking a fine line here with my kids. I want them to be able to shout people down to participate in conversations when that is necessary and sometimes it is in life. I also really need them to support one another. As time goes on… I notice that I expect Shanna to have a maturity she just doesn’t have yet. She doesn’t understand why it is a problem to never let Calli talk.

I stopped growling. We kept talking. We agreed that I am going to start saying, “Topic” when she needs to change the topic from her perseverating. I told her that if she ignores me saying that tactfully I’m going to be sending her to her room. That will be awkward on the road trip. Uhm… I don’t know how the fuck that will work. We’ll see!

I’m going to physically prevent you from treating your sister badly. It is my job. I need to build both of you up. I need you both to learn that you are worthy of speaking and being listened to. Not just one of you. We are not going to have the golden oldest child here. Fuck that noise.

I told Shanna that this is a conversational skill that many adults still struggle with. I told her I struggle with learning how to keep the conversation interesting to other people.

I asked her how she would feel if every time she wanted to talk about Minecraft I started loudly talking about the book I am reading. Even though no one else in the room has read it or cares. I could talk all day long really loudly. Her eyes went big. “I wouldn’t like that very much.”

Yeah kid, that’s how I fucking feel about Minecraft. I figured out how to set up an account and establish a LAN connection. What Do You Expect Of Me?!

(I drop the “fuckings” when I’m talking to Shanna. Well… like 95% of them.)

I told Shanna that it is my job as her mom to give her feedback on her behavior so she can learn how to be respectful of other people. That process will not be comfortable for either of us and sometimes I’m going to be too harsh. I’m sorry.

She hugged my hand and said, “You mean well.”

We talk a lot about mistakes. You can’t learn without making mistakes. I tell her there are little mistakes, medium mistakes and BIG mistakes. BIG mistakes are usually the kind of thing that will risk your life. Let’s not do those. Medium mistakes might involve a trip to the hospital or a lengthy amount of cleaning/repairing to fix… but you’ll recover. (I told her about stealing my mom’s car. That’s a medium mistake.) And we talk about little mistakes.

Talking over everyone is a little mistake. If you don’t make it… you won’t learn what happens.

You have to make as many little mistakes as you can. It builds your character. Being perfect is useless.

I make lots of little mistakes. It’s just how life goes. It is part of why I can answer so many random questions people have. I’ve made a lot of mistakes.

Raping the boy in kindergarden… I hesitate to call it a medium mistake. But no one died. If big mistakes are limited to things that cause death… that means committing rape is a medium level offense.

I have big feelings about that. Does that mean my dad raping most of his kids was just a medium mistake? Whoa.

Some of my friends, because they love me, want me to not feel permanently ashamed of committing rape when I was 5. They tell me that a 5 year old can’t be held permanently accountable. It’s different when it is an adult.

I believe that it is a difference of degree and not kind. I’m still a rapist even if I am not actively dangerous to anyone right now. There are rapists who are still an active threat and they have to be managed differently than me. I’m not scary in the same way. I think that is why folks want me to put it behind me.

Yeah, that’s what Josh Duggar tried to do. I don’t respect it from him and I wouldn’t respect it from me. I need to know what I am capable of and watch myself carefully for the rest of my life. I am a violent person.

It is hard for me that all of the literature about dealing with abusive men makes it sound like women are so rarely abusive as to be not worth addressing. That’s not fair. Women like me exist. We are a different problem but a problem nonetheless. And nobody wants to address us. No one. We don’t exist.

Which means that men believe that women are incapable of violence. Ha. Ha. Ha. Oh yes we are.

But then again… folks seem to believe that the only men capable of violence are Black men. Or maybe “scary looking” (left to the judgment of the viewer) guys are dangerous. Not “nice looking boys”. Oh you naive fuckers.

The innocent looking ones are often the most dangerous.

I think about violence a lot. I think about police brutality. I think about the fact that white men with heavy weapons were allowed to surround a Mosque and the police stood there and thought that was fine. But if folks are peacefully protesting a murder they will be put under curfew, arrested for going to work, and beaten.

I think that violence is a feminist issue. But holy shit I don’t know what to do about it. Do you ask the tiger how to become less violent? Not so much. We put violent people into our police force and then wonder why they behave like animals. We picked them based on that trait.

Honestly I’m not sure a whole country can become more equal. There will always be a hierarchy. But maybe the spread can narrow?

Pervy duckies

This is too funny. I have to write this down.

So my wonderful friend was telling me that he feels guilty because there isn’t much he can do for me. He said he feels like he is letting me down as a friend. First of all that is Not True. But secondly I said, “Well I’d like to run away from home for a couple of nights…”

He and his wonderful partner have allowed me to crash with them. Yay for guest rooms!

This is funny because in the guest bathroom they have a toilet. Like you do. The toilet itself isn’t the funny part. The funny part is the toilet seat.

The toilet seat/cover are clear, with little yellow duckies periodically. So each time I look down… I see a little duckie checking out my crotch. Every time I need to wipe I get to confront the little pervy duckie who copped a free glance. I see how it is.

I think it is hilarious.

AND THE BEST PART!!!! They are getting a new toilet soon. My friend said they would give me the toilet seat so that I can use it when I remodel my bathroom.


Running away from home

My kind friends are letting me hang out in their house for a few days as an escape from my life. It’s an adventure! They have a security system and in their opinion, in their neighborhood, it is incredibly important that it be turned on all the time. This is weird. I don’t always lock my house when I leave to run errands. I know all my neighbors. I’m just not real scared of what will happen to my house; but when in Rome do as the Romans do.

And they have lots of rescue kitties. You have to be very careful going in and out, which is very different from my swinging-open-door policy. I’m being careful. I want to be respectful of this kind offer.

This will not be like yelling at Rebecca’s dad. No sirree.

He was a total asshat. But I still shouldn’t have yelled at him while I was a guest in house.

Monetization. That’s been a big topic in my extended world lately. I hear about it a lot because I know a lot of people who want to start businesses. I live in an entrepreneur hot spot. This is partially because I live in the Silicon Valley and folks come here to do tech startups.

But I know independent operators of a lot of businesses. Acupuncture, massage, construction, book keeping, landscaping, providing day care…

Aren’t these all businesses? Don’t these things all count? Well, not if you listen to venture capitalists. The only businesses that “count” are the kind that will provide shareholder value. Mostly I know folks who want to provide a living for themselves and their immediate families. Mostly I don’t know very many people who want to “disrupt” society in order to make a lot of money. A few, not many. That’s a neurotic focus if you ask me.

Do you know the biggest difference I notice between people who have made a lot of money and people who don’t? The people who make a lot of money tend to start out feeling like they are worth a lot and they are pushy and aggressive about money from day one.

Doesn’t matter if you are a landscaper, a graphic artist, software designer or massage therapist. If you believe that you are good and people need to pay you a lot of money to interact with someone who is so good… you make more money.

Whatever you do, be good at it and require that people acknowledge how good you are.

That gets complicated in helping professions. The best day cares are not the most expensive–not really. The most expensive usually have complicated programs and materials but those things aren’t what cause children to learn quickly. Feeling loved, seen, and like it is safe to make mistakes–that’s what spurs massive learning. Often the people who are the best don’t know how to appropriately value themselves and they are ridiculously cheap.

I’ve been slowly working on my massage therapist for years. Sweetie, if you are booked more than six months in advance and you feel like you are drowning under the weight of people who want your time… raise your rates. (He does every so often. It’s wonderful for him.) Clearly what you have to offer is worth a lot of money.

He doesn’t want to raise his rates much because he cares about helping people and he doesn’t want to become a commodity that only rich people can afford. I hear that. I respect that. It’s going to kill him.

I think about this in terms of me showing up to clean my friend’s houses. I have promised myself that I will never again pick up a project-friendship. If someone needs me to come clean their house they need to pay me. At this stage of my life it is doing damage to my body that I have to pay doctors to fix. That means I need to be paid in exchange for the labor. I can’t just carry it any more. Not because I don’t care about people, but because there is a cost to me in doing the work. If I have to pay a cost… I can’t give it to you for free.

I am mercenary with my kids in this way. Everything I do for you has a cost to me. How am I going to pay it? The good thing is, mostly from the kids… I need love and attention. They have tons of that to spare.

The other day I asked Shanna if she wanted to go on a date after her dentist appointment. She told me no, she’d rather come home and spend time with her dad because he is her favorite parent.

I told her that even if her dad is her favorite parent… it’s rude and inconsiderate to tell me she doesn’t want to spend time with me because she only likes him. I told her that I work for her benefit and these dates are a way for us to pay attention to one another and enjoy one another’s company without having to do work I told her that I need dates to feel loved and it hurts my feelings very much that she thinks that talking to me for an hour is so horrible.

She looked shocked. She said talking to me isn’t horrible and she’s sorry she hurt my feelings. We had a nice date together.

We all work a lot. Housework, gardening, learning activities, the kids are learning computer skills… It’s work. We focus on our own things for a lot of the day. We work near one another rather than with each other for a lot of time. I need to feel like I’m worth paying attention to. Time spent is my big thing. People making time to come talk to me… that’s my structural support for life. I don’t need to be the center of attention all the time. (I would combust.) But I need dates.

A woman I follow on Twitter named Lauren Chief Elk is a First Nations activist. For the past few days she has been writing quite a bit about how wives should get a pay cheque the same way husbands get a pay cheque. We are doing work that is equally as needed and essential for our families. Why are we expected to do so without compensation? It’s crap.

If a man fixing a car is worth paying… why isn’t a woman taking care of children? If a man making a video game is worth paying… why isn’t a woman who is at home doing his fucking laundry?

Short answer: you are only worth paying if you demand that people pay you. This is why people are rarely paid for the work they do for family. The attitude is that you owe your family this work and you don’t deserve any compensation. You can pour out the whole of your life into your family and you deserve nothing back. You “didn’t do anything”. But if someone makes a video game! Oh! That’s deserving of reward!

I don’t like my culture very much.

Even if raising your children well means that you are ensuring that you are promoting the general good of your country. Better that you be an absent parent allowing the state to raise your kids for you in centers. That will lead to healthy people. Uhm, not.

I really and truly don’t believe that mothers are uniquely suited to raising children. I think fathers are also fully equipped once you get past breast feeding. I think aunts and uncles are competent. I think adult cousins are fully capable. Grandparents are fucking amazing. I envy some of the families in my neighborhood with the super-involved grandparents.

You can’t pay someone to care. When your child is taken care of by family members… mostly the child is personally cared about more than if the same child were with strangers. But at the same time, you can’t force your family to go and get the education necessary so they can handle a lot of the situations that come up with kids.

It is so complicated.

Many families are not capable of providing the care their children need. Does that mean the child is better off with the state? I’m not convinced.

The simple truth is, there will always be children who fall through the cracks and receive no appropriate care or love during childhood. It’s going to happen. Forever. We can’t legislate that away. We can’t create programs that solve every problem.

But part of the solution involves women learning to think that their work is worthy of compensation. I say it as “women” but there are lots of men in this category. I don’t think this is a chick thing.

The problem with thinking about monetization is it quickly gets into “What is beneath me to do so I should pay someone lower on the ladder to do it for me”. This is why I don’t pay people to clean my house. I am not so fucking good I can’t scrub a toilet.

But the thing is… I will never have the time to do the things I want to do if I’m constantly trying to keep up with this ever-growing lists of things I “should” do for myself. Like scrubbing my toilet or washing my clothes.

I would not feel like I was less of a person if I went back to cleaning houses for a living. That’s honorable work to me. Why do I object so much to paying someone else to do it for me? It’s a weird conundrum. I really do mind.

There is a lady in my neighborhood. She’s a hair older than me. She has more kids. She has a job. Her husband has a job. With both of them working as many hours as they can manage they barely make ends meet. A few times I’ve been at her house and watched her frantically cleaning. I feel guilty for not helping but she won’t hear of it. I’d cheerfully stand there and do the dishes while we chat. She’s so tired.

Even though it is not currently a financial consideration… I’m not sure she would be willing to let someone clean her house even if she could afford it. She will do it. It is her work. Even though she has a job. I think she’s a bit nutty. If I were working 50+ hours a week plus raising a whole bunch of kids… I hope I’d be more ok with letting other people take on some of my tasks.

But probably not. I’m stupid.

(Not saying she is. Saying I am.)

Pride is a funny thing. Wanting to get paid for your labor. Wanting to do it for yourself combine in these funny ways that result in mostly just the sociopaths being paid well. They are the only people with the chutzpah to demand a lot of compensation. They are the ones who believe they don’t owe anyone anything and if folks want something from them… pay for it.

And then the rest of the non-sociopaths stand near the sociopaths with charming smiles and hope that they get tossed enough scraps to live on. This isn’t going so well. Look at how wealth distribution is happening in our country. We are in trouble if we don’t stop letting the sociopaths have all the wealth.

Yes, I’m comfortable saying that the 1% is comprised mainly of sociopaths. 

In contrast, another friend has found a house cleaner and someone to do her laundry and all of a sudden her life is much better. I fully support her taking these steps. Basically…. she hired multiple out-sourced people to be her substitute wife. I get why people need a wife.  “Wife” should be a job.

I believe with all my heart and soul that a minimum basic income for all citizens is the only way forward to economic prosperity and healthy lives for as many citizens as possible. I believe that as long as wealth concentration happens at the top, you poison the community. People see no point in working as hard when they are only working for the betterment of people who are already stepping on their necks.

People need to learn how to have their own worth and value appreciated. I wish that monetization were not part of this but it is. If we had another proxy for talking about why peoples time matters I’d use it but we don’t. For now, all we have is money to talk about the relative merit of someone’s work.

For example: I believe that picking up garbage from the street for 8 hours a day is a job that should provide someone with a living wage. We need people to do this. We have done so much ecological damage with garbage. I don’t think that job is worthless, I think it is very important. I can see why it is hard to get a company to pay someone to do this work… it doesn’t increase the bottom line for the company.

But as a society we all benefit. If people were paid enough to survive and live like human beings with dignity… would more people spend their time this way? If they did not feel downtrodden and abused?

When people feel good about themselves they have more energy. Their mental state is better. They want to work. Humans aren’t that idle of a species. We like moving around and doing stuff. I believe that if people were not brought low by the strain of poverty and mental illness… people would be more productive. Just because they can.

If someone is freed from the strain of earning a meager survival income… what could that person make to improve their life and the lives of people around them? We are at the point where we have the wealth to do this. If we just made the choice.

If we just chose to see people as people. Black people and white people and red people and yellow people and brown people. There are not more “worthy” people in the white race–what a crock of shit. There are more people who have experienced privilege in the last generation or so and as a result many white people have higher educations and they have fewer of the downsides of poverty.

Let’s equalize the playing field. I think everyone would be shocked in a generation. At the very least all the eugenics-leaning fuckwads would be disproven. White people aren’t better. They are just given more help and that allows them to accomplish things that aren’t available to people who lack the support.

As a white person who lacked most of the support of my compatriots… I see the difference between what I had and what the other whites had. I can see how what I had was still structurally easier than being black. The police told me that they wouldn’t ruin a nice boy’s life over me, but they didn’t throw me in jail for being a nuisance. They let me “slide” on my childish mistakes. That doesn’t happen if you aren’t white. You must be perfect from birth.

No one is perfect. You learn more from fucking up than you do from getting things right. This whole set up is horrifying.

If making mistakes is the way to learn and we have structurally created a system where black people are not allowed to make a mistake or they are punished for the rest of their lives… we can’t say that we have any ability to judge the “worth” of various races. We have not seen an actual demonstration of worth without active harm in centuries. When black people do incredible things a white person is there five minutes later trying to burn it down. Often out of spite and jealousy.

We have a lot of negative history to pay for in this country. Sweeping it under the rug won’t help anyone. Yes I believe we owe all African Americans reparations for slavery. Yes I fucking do.

First and foremost: we need to disarm the police. Clearly they are not big boys and girls and they cannot handle toys as powerful as they currently possess.

Noah argues with me. He thinks we need to have a fully formed plan before we start changing things. I think he believes that because he is a white man on the top of the pecking order.

I understand that burning everything down could result in me or my kids becoming casualties of the revolution. Do I want that to happen? No. But I would consider it morally acceptable to balance how things have historically gone. I will make choices that minimize our personal risk only to a limited degree. I’m more interested in steps that help other people. I’m just… not as focused on me.

I’ve been at the bottom and I’ve been at the top. I’m not too worried about staying at the top. I hope I never have to steal food again. It’s a lot of why I grow so much. I am not willing to shove someone else down so I can appear higher.

I was that stepped on person. I can’t and won’t do it to anyone else. Not on purpose. Not willfully. No. No. No. No.

If my government wants me to believe that it is serious about serving the needs of citizens I need to see a few specific steps: disarm the police. Take rape seriously and go through the backlog of rape kits. Release all non-violent offenders from prison. Shut down every for-profit-prison in the country. Revamp our immigration laws so that they are more fair and equitable. Restore funding for abortion providers.

I would believe that my government cared about me if they took those steps.

Shanna tells me frequently that she thinks I should be a politician. Unfortunately honey, there are too many thousands of naked pictures of me out there. That ship has sailed.

Record keeping

Shanna asked me if she is tall. I said, “I don’t know. Let’s find out.” She is 51.25″ tall. For her age (7) she is in the 92% for height. I feel comfortable saying, “Yes. You are tall.” Even though, technically, if you are within the 95% then you aren’t considered “above average”. Still. If you are taller than 9/10 I think you are tall. Her weight has sat right at 50 pounds for a long time.

Calli is 45″ tall and that puts her in the 96% for height. She is 39.4 pounds. That bump up to 40 just isn’t happening no matter how much ice cream I give her. Calli is asleep and thus isn’t impressed by her own stature.



I was talking to a girlfriend about sex. I said that we have a new rule–no putting your dick in me unless you get me off first. She said, “Oh so you aren’t having sex any more?”

Uhm… no. We are having more sex than usual. More than we’ve had in a while. And it’s better. Why would you think we would stop? Don’t you understand this is why I married Noah?

I wasn’t going to be married to someone who would take a rule like that and say “Fine then I won’t fuck you.” To me, if someone responds that way… that’s not someone I want to spend time with. I’ve had seven years of sex mostly not involving orgasms because things got a lot harder after having kids. You have to take a lot of time and attention and mostly… penile penetration just doesn’t do it any more.

I’m sad too. Believe me. More sad than whoever owns the dick. I’m the one who isn’t coming as much.

But I married Noah because he hears a rule like that, grins and says, “Ahhh. A challenge! So that means I get to spend extra time having sex with you?” Then he waggles his eyebrows in a way that is cartoonish and not-sexy but he likes it and I try not to complain. (He thinks the eyebrow waggle will grow on me. I have my doubts.)

I have “taken one for the team” and put out when I wasn’t in the mood hundreds of times. No one gets to claim that I’m not meeting him halfway.

It’s time for things to shift. I need to have things shift. My pleasure needs to be important too. Not just my ability to be a supportive member of “the team”.

I sorta feel like we are fucking like rabbits because we anticipate the drought being hard. Neither of us are prone to abstinence.

I’m having lot of mixed feelings about sex lately. The Duggar case is bothering me. (If you are hiding under a rock: the Duggar family is a Quiverful family that has had a reality show about their super-sized family for years. The oldest son has recently been revealed in the news to have sexually assaulted four of his sisters and an unnamed other girl.)

First and foremost: I’m not going to get into trashing the Quiverful movement.

I’m feeling weird about the statute of limitations laws. None of the girls can do anything about their abuse because a police officer shushed it up at the time. That officer has since been sent to jail for child pornography. Should we change our statutory laws to reflect what should happen when there is an official cover up?

I don’t know.

Because there is a part of me that can’t hate the boy. He was raised to believe he was a male and he has the authority to do what he wants to the females around him and if they are sexually appealing it is their fault for not trying hard enough to cover up.

I’m a rapist married to a rapist. I don’t think I should cast stones from my glass house.

My stomach hurts.

This all feels so complicated.

I believe that forgiveness should never be encouraged nor forced upon victims. They will get to forgiveness on their own or not at all. The victims in the Duggar case were told they had to forgive instantly or God wouldn’t like them any more. When you grow up in a cult living your whole life for God…

I wish I knew what the answers are. I don’t. Lots of big feelings.

Mad Max: Fury Road review

There will be spoilers. If you don’t like such things, don’t read this post.

Well. It’s not a feminist movie. That was my first thought. I saw what people meant in a few cases–when we first spot the wives and they are dressed in diaphanous white and washing themselves with water… it is tastefully done. That scene easily could have been masturbation masquerading as hygiene and the director didn’t do that. Thank you.

It’s not a feminist movie. Why? Because other than “get away” the women… are still not acting that much. Sure, Furiosa is an Imperator and she breaks the wives out of jail. Whoopee?

This is not Furiosa’s movie. I’m not sure whose movie it is. I barely find out Furiosa’s back story and I’m supposed to root for her because she is the “tough and gritty woman” and that’s not enough for me.

I was glad that women were allowed to be as bad ass as they were in this movie. The older women cackling about all the people they’ve offed… I can see why some folks see it as a feminist movie. There is definitely a huge swath of “Bad Ass Women” running through the film.

But they live in a man’s world where the only recourse they have is to kill a lot of people. And pray they are still alive in a few more days.

In my opinion, a feminist telling of this story would have started later in the story. It would not have ended when the women arrived back at the Citadel with the seeds.

A feminist story would have been what comes next? How are they going to rebuild? What are the women going to do now that they are not compelled by a monster to murder or fuck at his command.

Furiosa and the wives do act and I don’t want to denigrate that. I won’t say that they are not feminists. But it isn’t a feminist movie. This is a movie made so that they can have car steering wheels pop out towards the audience during gnarly guitar riffs.

I’m not saying feminists never like guitar riffs. I’m not saying feminists never like seeing car steering wheels pop towards their faces.

The movie is not made with the goal of increasing equality between the genders. Not really. You see that the women can be nasty, violent and mean like the men… whoopdee shit. Was there actually doubt?

I learned nothing new. I did not grow. I do not feel energized as a woman nor as a feminist. I feel tired. Things will never get better. In the far distant future women will still be reduced to being the most base of animals trying to protect their right to procreate when and with whom they choose.

It’s not a feminist movie.

Yes, there were some gnarly fight scenes. I already have PTSD and a central nervous system damaged by excessive adrenaline and cortisol. The fight scenes just made me feel kind of sick. There were “exciting” moments.

I watched this movie and thought, “Either we can kill the people on top or kill ourselves and there aren’t really other options that allow you to make choices.”

It’s not a feminist movie. I want other options. I want to have other options in life than kill or be killed. Rape or be raped.

I want something different.


I’ve had lots of posts buzzing around in my brain. Now that I’m standing in front of the good ergonomic set-up… my mind is blank.

I feel a strong desire to break rules and “be bad”. I am prevented by a combination of “I promised myself I wouldn’t do that while I had little kids” and “oh god that sounds like effort and I’m tired.”

My back is improving. Thank goodness.

I’m scared. But it comes in waves.

Today I should probably make the invitations. We are going to invite a few people to go on the cruise. Even though a big part of me says “oh shit don’t bother.” I think Jenny (and her mom!!!!!) will be the ones coming. Ok, so Jenny will bring her husband and my wonderful niece.

I do have a family. I’ve had them for almost 22 years now. Holy crap.

But we will send them to some of Noah’s family members. And we talked about how there are a handful of people we really should send them an invitation so they know they are wanted even if they decide not to go.

Why do I give people the chance to know they are wanted so I can be rejected? Because my sense of self-preservation is low.

Because I love them very much. And I want them to know. Even if they won’t be able to or want to love me back in the same ways. That’s not the point of love.

If you can only love people who will give you back exactly what you want to give… that’s not love. That’s… something else.

Love means you tell them you love them even if you won’t get anything back. It doesn’t mean you let people walk on you or kick you, but you don’t only stick your neck out when you know they will go the same exact number of inches.

Is complicated. Don’t wanna type more.


In my family of origin it was a toss up for our family motto between two phrases. Specifically: “If you aren’t for me you are against me” and “We keep our dirty laundry in the closet” were the maxims by which to set your star.

Noah and I had an intense conversation today after we sent the kids into the back yard for “recess”.

We talked about loyalty. He said he did not get into a relationship with me because he expected to be protected.

That’s really hard for me to sit with. He pointed out that he knows it has been a long-standing disappointment to me that he doesn’t defend me. I have to defend myself. He told me that he knows it is hard for me to not get the defense but he was never looking for it.

For example: neither of us was looking for a partner with excellent teeth. It just didn’t hit our priority list. As a result we are both snaggle-toothed mother fuckers and we like one another just fine how we are. Excellent teeth was not a standard we held when we went hunting.

He wasn’t looking for loyalty. That’s… weird for me.

Probably good considering I would throw him under a bus if he did something actually wrong. I won’t defend your ass if you deserve a punishment. Hell.No.

I tell my kids the same thing. If you fuck up, you are taking the punishment–whatever it may be. I will probably stand next to you so that you don’t have to feel alone… but you are taking it. I will throw your ass under a bus so fast it will make your head spin if you deserve it.

You need to deserve it. I believe Noah is a rapist because I spoke to the woman in question and she told me her side then he told me his side. Yup, he committed rape.

The thing is… I’m a rapist too. I don’t really have a high horse to stand on. If the boy I raped were not past the statute of limitations… I would submit to charges if he wanted to press them. I would think it deserved.

I am absolutely sure beyond the shadow of doubt that I will never commit rape again. But that’s not the point.

Recent events not-with-standing I think Noah is past the point of being dangerous to society. I do not feel the need to turn him into the police myself.

I believe with all my heart and soul that Noah is not a danger to the public. Or I would turn him in.

I think that he sometimes really, really, really fucks up on social clues. It is ok. I’m ok using a hammer to deliver my social clues.

I think that if he were still out there dating all of society would be owed him taking very detailed and specific classes about what kinds of behaviors are and are not considered acceptable in standard dating practices. Not because he is dangerous but because things are fucking complicated.

Not that those classes are actually taught.

Let’s not forget that when I went to a workshop on how to have acceptable boundaries I was pulled to the front of the class as an example of what not to act like because you don’t want to be like the biggest bitch on the beach.

So I am, perhaps, not the person to be teaching about how to behave appropriately during dating. I accept non-normative behaviors as standard.

Recently I read somewhere (Jesus I don’t know where) that 1/4 Americans are mentally ill. My first thought was, “That is my audience.” Those are the people I am interested in. I’m not interested in the other 75%.

You think you are fine and I have nothing to say to you. Ok

I’m broken and fucked up and I’m a survivor and all that bullshit. I look for people like me.

People who don’t need me to have my emotions off-stage.

People who want to know how I am living post-rape and if it is all it is cracked up to be.

I write about rape all the fucking time. But from the point of view of living post-rape. Living influenced by rape. Living as if GETTING YOUR DICK OFF were not the point.’

It is fascinating how realizing that your husband is out of the gene pool changes a lot of your tolerance for behavior. Aggression is different. Only when I want it. Only when it is ok. Not when it isn’t ok. Or that’s a serious fucking problem. If he were still knocking me up and I were still more vulnerable? I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.

And I know it.

Good thing I’ve gotten lucky and my husband is nice to me.


I’m scared.

I’m scared that I am not going to be good to the kids on the road trip. I was a bitch when we walked in the door tonight. I don’t think I started before we got home, just when we walked in the door.

Calli was dragging a sweater on the ground and I started ranting about how she doesn’t need to get it nasty. I don’t know why I felt the need to be so vehement and pissy.

Then she wanted to hand me the sweater when I was still trying to set down the nine things I was carrying. I ranted. I was a dick. I mean, I ranted for maybe two minutes. But Calli looked crushed.

I stopped. Said, “Wow. I got mean as soon as we got home, huh?” She nodded and said yes in a small voice. I apologized. She accepted my apology and hugged me. I decided that maybe I should go to the garage for a little while.

I depend on Noah a lot. He is an extremely involved parent. I depend a lot on our babysitter. I depend a lot on K, even though she only watches them for ~ 2.5 hours/month. What am I going to do when I am genuinely alone with them for 24 hours a day? Oh god. I’m scared.

I am going to have periods in every day where I wear ear plugs and write in my journal. I need time where I do not have to listen to your voice. Only my voice needs to be in my ears. My voice is fucking loud enough, thanks.

State of the body.

I’ll give a state of the body. Because I’ve been telling myself “record symptoms!” for two weeks or so and I haven’t.

I woke up this morning and experienced no pain in my right shoulder. This is monumental. I have to write this shit down. This is the first time I have woken up without shoulder pain in more than six years. Shanna is about to turn seven and I earned a knot in my shoulder during pregnancy and her first year of life from sleeping on my side. It has been a gnarly addition to my life. And It Is Gone!!!!!!!!!! I want to do cartwheels! Only I’m not that limber.

Otherwise, I’ve been having a lot of headaches. They are minor, only like a 2-3 but they are slightly distracting. My neck has been enormously painful. My neck has been feeling shitty for a while now. The chiropractor says it will hurt as my body attempts to pull up things that have been slack. I bloody hope it stops some day. Supposedly I’m healing. We’ll fucking see. I am a mixture of hope and pessimism. But he fixed my shoulder! That deserves positive reviews all over the place.

The headaches are in multiple places. I’ve had a slight throbbing behind my temples but mostly it is just the base of the skull pain I always have. I assume it is from too many years of looking down at books.

I’m taking breaks every 500 words to stretch and flex. Let’s see if that helps. My right shoulder is better! My left shoulder has the same level of stiffness it has had. Meaning it has limited rotation, I have a few weird notches, but mostly it is acceptably moving and limited in pain. My right shoulder is still crunchy and grinding and not very comfy, but I don’t have the knot of doom! This is exciting! Take what you can get.

My upper back is feeling pretty darn good. My lower back is not so good. Today it is better than it has been for a bit, which is nice. I’m stiff, achey, and sore. I have periodic spasms. I’m fucking terrified my back will give out on the road trip. We’ll fucking see, won’t we?

My hips are sore, stiff, and aching. I blame the seven mile walk with no real warm up. Oh gosh. My left hip is worse than my right. If you do the cross your ankle onto your knee and pretend to sit thing my left hip will pop and pop and pop over and over as many times as I want to “sit down”. That’s probably not good. I’ll stop.

My thighs hurt. Probably also walking related. Strangely, this is a delightful kind of hurt.

However my knees being sore is not delightful. That is awful. It isn’t the knee joint (on the left leg) it is the exterior of the knee. It feels like a horrifying bruise but nothing is visible. It is super tender right above the knee on the outside of the leg. Some year I will stop hurting myself in phantom ways.

My shins and calves hurt in a sore, I’ve been used kind of way, so once again… not a bad thing.

Now my ankles suck. They are ouchy and yucky and no fun. All kinds of movements hurt them. And I’m at a standing desk so I get to wiggle back and forth and remind myself thousands of times. Really, every part of my feet hurt. The toes, the tops, the bottoms. Ouch and ow and suck. In no good ways.

Ok, I did my state of the body.

Other thing I’m obsessed about lately: push and pull things with relationships.

A friend told me that I am the most relationship focused person that they know. I had feelings about that. Really? The most? That sounds decisive. I’m not sure what that means.

I think about myself in relationship to other people. I act like I don’t exist except as I relate to other people. I am not real focused on the wife and mother part of it, I worry more about my relationships out in the world. I am tentatively connected with hundreds or thousands of people and I maintain those connections through extreme effort and time. I don’t need to have everyone like me. But holy fucking shit I want there to be thousands of people who say “It’s ok that you exist.” I don’t need them to like me. I want them to know I am in the world and for them to think that it is a positive thing. Even if they don’t personally like me.

Like that girl in the teaching credential program who asked me to critique her papers by saying that she knew I would tell her what I really thought. Oh yes. I will tell you what I really think. But not all of it. I’m old and I have a super-ego and I’m afraid of punishment in ways I didn’t used to be afraid.

(Now that I think of it… I was doomed with that chick in the teaching credential program even before she asked to copy my homework. She had long blonde hair and I’m an asshole. I usually don’t like blondes. At least not blondes who do a lot of tossing their hair and implying that they should get their way. Fuck.Right.Off.)

This is coming up because my shrink asked me if I am getting “go away” signals from people in the home schooling group. Uhm, no. Not if I’m honest. I told her, “I don’t think so but I’m probably not the best person to judge.” Which is fairly honest.

Today I had my first time in the presence of the kid who kicked me in the throat back in February. That was… a social anxiety dissociative nightmare. Otherwise known as I “turned on” and talked to people when I felt there would be consequences if I didn’t and otherwise I stood/sat as far away from people as I could manage without causing people to question my behavior.

When I was holding the rope for the piñata I looked at the ground and pretended I was a tree when the boy who kicked me did the hitting. I spent most of the event feeling like his mother was glaring daggers at me. I tried not to cry.

I have turned into the piñata person for the group. Is this because I am the native Californian? Who knows. I didn’t actually do them much as a kid. Maybe a handful of times? Mostly… I’ve learned from movies.

Yes, I think a lot about my relationships.

I wouldn’t bother to exist without them. I had no particular desire to end up married to a man. I mean, I like having things shoved in my cunt but my experience is that women and people who do not identify as any where in particular along the gender binary are equally good at shoving things in there.

I have never been all that good at making money. But I’m pretty good at fucking people who can earn a lot of money. I have semi-lucratively turned this into a good deal with one person. He happens to have a penis.

This comes up partially because Netflix recommended a movie about a lesbian housewife who turns first to sex workers and then to sex work. Oh Netflix, you know me.

I care really a lot about what people want from me. I wanted a partnership with someone who would expect me to educate children reared out of my body. From fairly early in my life I have viewed myself as a breeder. That doesn’t mean that everyone born with a cunt needs to do so. I do.

Last night I told Noah that I wanted him to suck my clit. I think I have only said that a few times in my whole life. I’m not really that into oral. I have requested oral many more times than I have said, “I want you to suck my clit”.

Ok, I’m annoyed with this housewife who is getting into sex work. Don’t go through a pimp. You don’t need a guy to set it up. There are totally women who would fuck you. Don’t go through him. He’s stealing your money.

See, this is why I don’t think I needed to marry a man. I mean, I like Noah and all. But I like him as much for his breakfast making skills. I like him as much because he tells the fucking stupidest jokes, ever. I don’t like him because of his penis. Even though sometimes it is awfully nice when he puts it in me.

This movie is called Concussion. And now she is hearing the repressed issues of women who want to be clients. Yeah, this is why I considered sex work. Because of all these wonderful, fabulous, lonely people who have not figured out how to get someone else to touch their genitals. It is a service I have offered. Never for money. Just because I think it sucks that so many people have not gotten to have positive feelings inside their bodies.

God I love people. And by “God” do not think I mean the G-d of the Jews. I mean, emphatically I love beings that exist in the vague meat-shape of people.

I really fucking hate people. I hate people so much because I want to please them and often… I don’t. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to be what they want.

I have learned how to be good at sex. It is a physical act. But all those other things people want? I don’t know. I talk about sex. Incest. Randomly. I care a lot about relationships. Perhaps more than I should. I care more about the distance between you and me than I should. You. You. You. You. And me. Who am I? WHO AM I??????

Sometimes I don’t know. I am not a wife and mother. Fuck you with a two by four. If, in my obituary, they describe me first as a wife and mother then I have done everything wrong.

I am not cool because I am Noah’s wife.

I really fucking like Noah. I’m not dissing Noah. But if a certain woman from Noah’s past were not past the point of being able to press charges, I would not stop her. Because she has the right. I would visit him in prison and send him nice packages and all, but she has the fucking right. I am not on his side against other people. He gets to stand alone. Which makes me feel really fucking bad sometimes. Am I or am I not part of a larger unit? I am. And I’m not.

There is a me that isn’t about Noah. That isn’t about defending him nor his actions. Life is very complicated. I like Noah. Please don’t get me wrong. But I need to exist outside of him. Outside of relationship to him. I was not waiting to exist until I met him.

My great grand-mother was a sex worker. That doesn’t make me a sex worker. But it probably explains why I am completely obsessed with the topic. What are you if you aren’t what you come from? Maybe my great grandmother was smarter than me. She at least knew to extract a price from her labor. I have the damn mink stole she earned.

Depending on how you look at it, I have used sex to inspire Noah to new heights of earning potential. It has worked.

I have a really strong need to have things shoved in my cunt. But I don’t care if it is a penis. What I care about is the trade.

I hate this song. I love this song. In the first he wants the girl to be there in the back seat so he can look cool. In the second he wants to provide her a nice meal then have sex. That’s an offer I like. Not because I think that everyone who buys me dinner owes me sex. That’s not my point.

We bought dinner for friends tonight. I don’t think they should put out even though they are super cute. 

That sounds creepier than I mean it. We went to dinner with a nice family. Dad, pregnant mom, little girl. They are not sexy cute. Just cute. Like baby ducks. Ok, clearly mom and dad think one another are sexy and that’s fine… they aren’t for me.

I worry a lot about my relationships with people. And I learned as a three year old that my primary way of relating to people should be my cunt. I’m going to be weird forever.

But maybe if I start doing my typing at a standing desk so I take dance breaks I will be in less pain some day.

I think my ability to see myself in relationship to the people around me is why I am still alive. I see the obligations I have to people. I can’t die yet. I have to ____. Shit, I didn’t die when I was 15 because I got up and tried to get ready for school instead of telling my mom to leave me alone.

She would have. If I had said it once.

I didn’t.

I dragged my sorry ass into her bedroom and started narrating my hallucinations. Because I want to matter enough to stay alive. Because I want to be seen and matter. Because I want someone else to decide no. You don’t get to die. Not yet.

I mean, everyone dies some day. Everyone. That is the most inevitable thing in all of history. We all die.

Not today.

Who am I? I’m Krissy fucking Gibbs. Because I’m the Krissy who fucks the Gibbs not because I’m like Amanda Palmer. She is cool and all, but I’m not musically talented.

Because being Krissy fucking Archer sucked. Fucking my father wasn’t fun. Not for anyone. He was mean.

I talk about rape because I want to help men like my father understand how to be less of a fucking bastard so maybe you can get sex that will be good for you and you won’t have to rape your wife and your babies to get the love that you so desperately need. Because there has to be sex that is good for both sides of the equation. Or it isn’t sex. It is rape.

What I like about the idea of sex work is the idea that you only have x number of hours during which you have to interact with people and during those specific hours you have to behave exactly how they want. That is pretty much how my M/s relationship worked. It was rad.

It was precisely, exactly what I wanted. He didn’t want that much from me. He wanted specific things. I like a good negotiator.

I really love the idea of being able to say “Send #5 to someone else.” It isn’t that #5 is bad or wrong. But someone else is better suited to serving their needs.

I will never, ever in my whole life promise that I will not be a problem. Even if I will work hard to not distress people. That doesn’t mean I won’t be a problem.

I’m hard. I will always be hard. That will sometimes be a problem. I don’t know if I will ever go back to the home school group. After how I felt today… I don’t know. It isn’t anyone who was there’s fault. I am not blaming anyone. I am not saying that it is so and so’s fault. I am not saying “If only so-and-so had ____” I am truly not. I could list the name of every person there (but for privacy reasons I shall refrain). It isn’t them. This feeling is in me.

Ok, in this movie Concussion the housewife turned sex worker didn’t show up to pick her kids up at school. She decided she would rather see a client. See, that is why I will probably not do anything to pursue actual work until my kids are grown. It doesn’t matter what the work is. Not sex work, not any other kind of work. I wanted kids so fucking bad. I wanted to find out what it was like to know people who had parents who showed up. And that is why I will ensure that my behavior towards them is what they need for the duration of the time they need me. I made that commitment. To them and to Noah.

I want to pour everything I know into them. Not my experiences. Different. I want them to benefit from my knowledge.

Which should mean that I know who I am. Who am I? I don’t know. But I need to be chased. I need to be sought after. I need to be defined in stories of “When I was a child” told by other people so that I can understand how different I am.

Please, tell me more. I want to hear more. Tell me about you. Maybe I will understand me. And while you tell me all about you, fuck me really, really, really hard.

Life is really complicated.

When I cross my right leg over my leg it hurts a lot–because of that spot above my knee. Shit. I am really fucking scared that my body will give out on the trip. And there is a big part of me that says, “Fuck it. When it comes to crunch time I deliver. Stop whining.” I’m thinking about bringing a corset for back support.

I feel lucky as fuck that I get to take my kids across the country and show them historical sights and talk about why people have done the things they have done. And I feel glad that I can make two people come into the world who will know that they need to apologize when they hurt someone on accident. And you try not to make the same mistake again. Sometimes you will. And the person you are fucking up with gets to decide how much of that they are willing to put up with. Life is really complicated. I only exist in relationship to the people I love.

Who am I? I’m going to go fuck my husband. He’s been really good at that lately.

My ideal reader

I love you so much, Noah, because you want to see inside my mind. Because you want to know what I’m thinking about. Even though what I’m thinking about is… mostly kind of fucked up.

I had a train of thought. Then I went to get my arm braces. See how this goes?

Today at the park was fine. I guess. Life plugs along. I’ll tell you about it in person.

Therapy was good. We did a lot of somatic work. What the body holds matters. I have a lot of fight left in me. I have good reasons for the fight in my body. How do I deal with it?

This week Calli accidentally dropped an iPad on my face. That doesn’t quite do it justice. I was lying on my back with a rolled up towel beneath my neck trying to relax, as my chiropractor directed, when my daughter came up to me and said, “Mom I can’t make it…”

I said, being a wise and experienced parent, “Don’t put it over my face.”

She said, “Mom I can’t make it” and dropped it on my nose.

I kind of exploded up into a sitting position while swinging my arms wildly and shouting “Get away from me”.

I cried for a while. She went to her room. When I went in to talk to her she had fallen asleep. (It took me awhile to stop crying. It really fucking hurt. I still have a mark a week later.) She sat up and immediately started apologizing.

Oh darling. If you are that sorry then I don’t want you to be sorry. It was an accident. But next time I tell you to not put something over my face, listen to me. I forgive you.

Accidents are part of life. We can only grow if we fuck up.

I started off wanting to talk about monetization. That is where I started. Then that damn heater made me feel really hot and I got distracted. Noah brought in a heater to persuade me to remove my clothing. He is a thoughtful fellow. To be fair, I told him to. So no persuasion. Hell I advertised on Twitter.

Anyway. I think a lot about monetization and writing. Probably because I don’t have to be paid. It changes the perspective. If you must produce money, what you write is necessarily constrained. Because if you need money you need the good will of the people around you.

I don’t have to care if I piss people off. I can be crass as fuck and not care.

It is a privilege I pay for with my pussy thank you, very much.

The funny thing is: I think the reason why I am a good enough fuck to merit talking about myself that way is because I demand that I be gotten off. I talk about what I want and how I want to be touched. I exist in the room. I demand to be seen. I’m watching the movie, Nymphomaniac Vol 1. It is hilarious, which may not be what the director intended.

Seriously, Uma Thurman does a fabulous job as the jilted wife. Monetizations. Sex. Sorry, got distracted by masturbating. Delirium Tremens. Sorry watching a movie.

Why am I writing? Because it is keeping me company. Why don’t I keep company with the folks I live with? Because I’m having fun.

I have fun alone. Sometimes that seems weird to me. Like I’m breaking a rule.

I will never stop feeling pain because I will never stop abusing my neck like this. *Exactly* like this.

But I will take many months off! I will go travel. I will write in journals. I won’t sit at home and watch porn and masturbate. Clearly my time will be better spent.

I’ll masturbate anyway. I always do.

I want space and I want connection. I create this by talking about masturbation and figuring out who sidles away looking nervous.

Really that is the perfect metaphor for my life. Do I make you uncomfortable? That’s not weird, right?


It’s sick.

I walked away from the screen for 24 hours. I’m just hitting post.


Today is group picture day at the park. I didn’t sleep well. I have therapy this morning. It’s my last therapy session for a while. I’m skipping June and we will do July-November with periodic phone calls and Skype sessions. We talked about how having a month off to get situated will be good but longer without support will probably go badly.

I’m very grateful that I worked through the stuff that was bothering me about my shrink. I no longer feel like I need to dump her. I needed to have some incredibly hard conversations and set some boundaries. I’m glad I don’t feel like I need to dump her because I need support. Overall she isn’t bad at providing it.

Today will be long and I’m dreading it. I’m not sure why I’m dreading it so much. We will see the Bonus Kids (and their mom, of course) for the last time till November. That will be lovely. We will have a trip to the park. I’m staying two hours then coming home. I have a chiropractor appointment tonight.

Sometimes when I come and type all this here I do so because I am afraid I will forget something and no-show an appointment. That happens sometimes.

I’m really scared.

22 days.

Part 2

I’ve been thinking a lot about Part 2. Meaning the next stuff after Part 1 of the autobiography. (Already available for sale here.)

Part 2 is really two books. Because there are two different things going on. There is, first and foremost, what I want my children to know about me so that if I ever get hit by a bus they can understand who I am, where I come from, and maybe they won’t take my crazy so personally. Then… If I’m honest at all I’d like to write a tawdry little one-handed reading story that really explains the useful things I got from bdsm.

I grew up in the bdsm community. I was there from 18-25. That’s what I did with my time and energy. I learned how to be a pervert.

The thing is… I feel like a lot of the lessons and interesting things I learned in the community are things that you really don’t have to know “my” whole story to get value from. You don’t have to know Krissy Gibbs to be able to learn from the lessons I experienced.

Really this comes down to the fact that I’d like to have a Part 2 I can hand my kids and one I can say never never read this book.

It’s not for you. Because you can never unsee what you have seen. You can never unknow what you know about your mom.

I sorta think that the not-for-kids Part 2 doesn’t even really need to be about me. It needs to be about what I learned. I’ve been thinking really hard about whether or not I want to write it as an autobiography anyway.

The lessons I learned were complicated and layered and took a very long time of being whacked in the head to really get to where I was going. A book will have trouble conveying that. A book needs lessons that happen with a frame and an arc.

I was talking to my friend Tay about why he isn’t getting into the Outlander series. It sounded like complaints Jenny has made about the same series. I told him to stop bothering. It’s not going to be for him. Outlander doesn’t have a point. She isn’t telling you a story so that you can learn about Scotland in the 18th century. There isn’t a point. It’s just happening.

If I wrote Part 2 about the bdsm community and I did it like I did No Secrets then it would be… weird and kind of boring. It really wouldn’t be hot. If I want the kinky Part 2 to work… I sort of think this will need a frame. This will need a narrative hook. This will need to draw in people who have never known me and who will never know me.

I wonder if I will have to leave the abuse out entirely. Not abuse by my Owner–I mean my childhood stuff. Which will… substantially change the story. If I leave out all the “why” stuff from my childhood… I will have to come up with entirely different character motivation. That’s kind of wild.

I asked Noah the other day how he knows I love my mother. He said that not very many people are capable of hurting themself the way I have since childhood out of a desire to not have my emotions be a problem for people around me. Clearly I have strong feelings. He says it is obvious that it is love. I am less convinced that it is obvious.

What possible motivation would someone else have to behave how I did in a Master/slave relationship? That’s kind of hard to come up with. I feel like if I leave out the cutting, self-mutilation, eating issues and various other self-harm stuff I deal with then it won’t make sense why I needed to learn the lessons I needed to learn. Why in the fuck else was bdsm so much better? Why was getting my boyfriend to slap me in the face better than what I had been doing?

I’m not sure how to tell the story without making it clear that what I did with my Owner was better in every way compared to what came before. And still make it hot.

This will really not be a book for my kids. Which means I’m thinking really hard about what I will say in Part 2 for the kids. I had a four year long relationship with a man. We lived together for three years. He was really nice to me and he encouraged me to finish college. Eventually I broke up with him because I wanted kids and he didn’t.

I mean… that’s what happened, right?

Don’t tell the kids that “very nice to me” included locking me, while naked, in a wooden crate on the back deck. It was raining and freezing. It included sleeping in a 3’x3’x4′ steel cage. Because he thought it was hot. I had atrophied neck muscles from the collar that was locked on me. I deformed my calf muscles wearing high heels. He broke my arm during a bondage scene. I had the casting technician put in attachment points.

No wonder I have back problems.

If you treat someone like an animal for enough years there are consequences.

Why in the fuck was this so much better?

It was. It really was. He was honest with me. How do I make it clear to my children that sometimes you have no good choices and a bad choice is a good choice. While not making it sound like a good idea to go try that sort of shit.

I got into an argument once over Moll Flanders. Someone was very critical of “how dare she make those choices”. I get it. I mean, the book was written by a man and I think it shows, but I get it. I get why people become hard and make choices that seem unthinkable to other people. I get it.

Moll Flanders is not respectable, likable, nor particularly good. She is instead heart-breakingly real. People suck.

My bonus kids have been here for almost 24 hours. I get to keep them till tomorrow. This is very exciting.  We are getting along really well this time. Last time was great too. We are learning how to be together. We are growing into one another. We can anticipate one another’s needs and quirks.

This time… Bonus Middle Child tickled me. I’m not sure that has ever happened before. His early visits involved a fair bit of him hiding behind my bed with a blanket over his head because we overwhelmed him like fuck. He was used to being the loudest one in his house. (Now he has a sister. Ha.)

He is so engaged. He has asked to play a bunch of games. He negotiates and talks. He can talk about things other than space. This is huge progress. When the girls are picking on him he says, “It hurts my feelings when you call me that. Please stop.”

My kids are doing better too. They are giving space better. They are less aggressive with, “Everything has to be my way.”  I’m not sure I have had to say “Who is the mama here?” even once.

I want four kids. I don’t ever want a baby again. I am so forking grateful that Bonus Baby is almost not-a-baby. She is talking so well. She has so many questions. She wants me to describe everything she touches. It’s a lot of fun. She lights up when she leans on me to say, “Krissy, what this?” She is so excited that I am happy to answer every question. She is annoyed that she has to enunciate. Life’s rough, kid.

She is very very upset with me about enforcing “Inside voice” but I can live with that. When a kid starts screaming I take them by the hand (or pick them up, whatever is necessary) and I move to the back yard. I’ve stopped negotiating or reminding. You aren’t in trouble. I’m not punishing you. I’m helping you build the body memory “I only scream in the back yard.”

By “very upset with me” I mean she cries every time I put her in the back yard for a minute. Maybe two. Then she gets over it and goes back to playing.

I like playing with kids so much. Today we planted milkweed because my neighbor gave me milkweed seeds. I sure hope they come up. I will give them to neighbors all over the area.

Let’s coax some monarchs.

It was really fun to garden with the Bonus Kids. They have eleventy-billion questions. My kids aren’t questioners. I remain convinced that my kids don’t ask “Why” because I already overwhelm them with information. I am sad and proud.

Chiropractor says I’m very enflamed. What are you doing?! Err… being me. Clearly this isn’t a good idea.

25 days to go.

This week we must go to the park with the home school group for the year book picture. I’ve been with the group for most of the school year, even if I’ve been kinda flakey. I want representation. I’m not opting out, yet. And Shanna insists that she wants to go to the park for the selling-things day. So we have a couple home school things coming up. (Selling things is in two weeks.)

We also have a birthday party with the group this week. I hope it goes well. The person hosting is completely unaware that I’m having issues with folks. So I’ll smile and nod, like I do.

This week I want to take the van in for more work. I have four spiffy new tires. They were not able to do the air breaks that day. I also want to get an oil change. Just because. During the oil change I will have my friendly, cheap-as-heck, super competent mechanic check absolutely everything else.

Next week I get a hair cut. Then Shanna gets a hair cut. She wants her hair dyed with pink and blue vertical stripes. Uhm, sure.

Some wonderful friends will let me hide in their guest room for three days at the end of May. I will have quiet time. Otherwise we have dinner with one set of friends, see Pam twice and that’s it.

We are almost done with socializing and checking in with people. We will miss a lot of people. We’ve made the rounds. I have lots of time for putting spoons in drawers over the next three weeks.

I am ~75% packed. I will be completely done by the end of May. My theory is: if all that shit can’t sit in my van in my driveway this trip just won’t work. And I don’t want the back strain of trying to pack in a hurry. I’m doing little pieces as I go.

I’m scared. This is probably a fucking stupid thing to do. But I want it so so so so so so bad.

Go slow. We’ll make it.

Only one more swim class before we leave. Only nine more visits with the babysitter. Boo hoo hoo hoooooooooooo. That is the hardest sounding one.

I fucking love our babysitter. But Portland is calling my name. I should probably call Aunt Cookie today. I wrote her a letter. Then changed the dates after I sealed the envelope and neither sent the letter nor wrote another one.

Mail sucks.

Ok, that’s all the kid-off time I will be getting.

Just one more day

Today Shanna announced that it is sometimes appropriate to wear all black. That is a milestone sorta moment.

I’m thinking about the overlap of the movie The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio and failure. What does failure mean?

We are all small pieces in the stories of one another’s lives. I spend a lot of time thinking about the past. It seems to me that other people believe the past should be over and done. In thinking about the past I understand the present. Through perspective I get why I’m doing what I am doing. Why I will do what I will do.

Connect, connect, that’s what we all want. Whether it is through selling something or through buying big old big-ukkkie yuck well. Or something. What the fuck was that? I don’t even know.

White men help white men. White women help… I don’t fucking know.

Sometimes I feel like a race traitor. I don’t type that very often. But I think it. Often.

Especially when I watch movies like like “The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio” and watch how white men are supported without ever knowing the price of bearing them. No one ever says life is easy. This is true.

I think about the past because it helps me figure out why I want to do what I want to do. I want to forget. I want to stop thinking about pain. I want to stop hurting. I don’t know how. I’m told, by asshole men, that the path forward is just to forget. To stop thinking about the things that have happened to me. The things that shaped who and what I am. I am not a dumb grazing animal standing under a tree. I am a complex being.

I am not important.

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m just not stupid. To be fair I’m sure there are asshole women with the same opinion. They just feel less need to track down my Twitter feed to tell me how stupid I am.

“That’s not enough”

“It never is”

“How is Dad going to fill the freezer when he can’t even buy the milk?”

“I have no idea honey but at least he has a goal.” (From the above referenced movie.)

I feel sad. I feel disconnected. I feel like my bills are not the point of life. I pay my bills. Oh fucking well.

I feel happy. I feel connected. I feel like I am unusually well connected with friends. All along the way we toss out some of the most interesting, most enlightened people.

I think a lot about bravery. Why do we try the things we try? Do we have to see someone else do it first? Just try. Just try. What the fuck does autocorrect do anyway?

Violence, meanness, write it down. There is just a hole lot of mean in the world. This is literally just what is pouring out my head as my fingers hurt. Can’t type enough. My problems are many and varied and are never that I’m not happy enough. And all of the problems fall through the hole in the whole world.




The end.

Didn’t sleep enough

My stomach feels fussed. I wish I could stop thinking about a situation with a person. Maybe it would help. My sweet baby-cakes woke up to babble full-speed about Minecraft. It is hilarious. Right now she is cleaning the floor because she really wants me to play zombies with her.

What do I get out of liking someone so much that I stop liking me?

Ok, she decided tutorials were better than zombies. I see how it is.

I’m really tired. I stayed up much too late for the show. Otherwise I feel like things are going ok. I feel like I am pulling away from the situations where I’m experiencing actual distress. That’s for the best.

I am nervous about an interview today. It is for the campus newspaper where I graduated from college. It was put out on the Rape/incest network. Sure, I’ll show up for an interview. The last one didn’t go anywhere because the reporter went on maternity leave and just…. stopped working. Whoops.

Today will be ok.

Wistful bits

On phone. Today I have big feelings. It was really nice to support a small friend through a growing up ritual. Now we are at a music show. They Might Be Giants. This is my 4th? 5th? Time seeing them over 18 years.

I feel reaffirmed in my view that a theatre career is not in my future because staying up hurts.

why such big feelings? It was a good day. I think because I keep understanding new layers about family. Families are hard even when they are easy. I remain overwhelmed with gratitude for my children. Even when they drive me nuts I think they are perfect.

not better than other peoples kids in an objective way. Perfect for me. I feel continually challenged to grow.


Should I stay or should I go now

I leave in 32 days. On one hand… I’d like to leave tomorrow. On the other hand… I am scared. I’m scared of pain and failure. My hands hurt. Sometimes gripping things is a problem. Notice how good I’m being about not typing much? Trying to heal.

My belly hurts. I’m hungry. Dinner was light.

So many feelings. My shrink is pushing me to change how I interact with people. Make my plans and move forward. Don’t try so hard to get people on the same page. Don’t ask for specifics. Don’t try to nail people down to actual agreement. Either they show up or they don’t. Either their plans work or they don’t. She wants me to stop canceling a whole day of plans when someone in an inner circle speaks up and wants time. She wants me to reserve less time for people based on the emotional weight I give the relationship.

People will show up or not and I burn a lot of energy on planning and trying to get people to commit. Folks don’t like committing.

I feel like my shrink is being really fucking bossy lately. She’s given me more specific feedback on “X friendship doesn’t seem to be meeting your needs and you should step back” over the past few months. She’s pushing me to push people away. I have feelings about that.

She wants me to have more boundaries around me.

One of my lovely neighbors asked if I wanted her to come over so she can help me weed the garden. We will work on my abysmal Mandarin and her moderate English at the same time. Sounds fabulous. (Oh, Pam: she was sad when I said you were not available to join us. She wishes your grandmother a speedy recovery; she wishes more grandchildren were so dutiful.)

Splitting the kids into separate rooms was the right choice. As was coming down like a box of hammers over eating out. That stopped the fighting that was reaching a fevered pitch. Calli hasn’t felt the need to get in my face and tell me off since. Thank goodness. Having separate space is such a fabulous novelty that when I declare cool-off-time in separate rooms everyone is cheerful and excited. I’m aware that it will change over time.

We are going to have adventures with “I get to decide who is allowed in my room”.

We are still slowly dividing up belongings to figure out what gets stored where. It’s a process.

I think it is funny that Shanna wanted her bed flipped back into a bunk bed because this way it has sides and she doesn’t fall off the platform. A low bed isn’t safer for her.

Calli has been exhausted lately. She must be growing. She’s been napping more days than not for a week or two. Good timing. Outgrow your clothing now, before we leave on the trip.

I’m bleeding. This will be my last period using cloth pads until December. It’s disposables for most of the year. Ew, tampons. Owie, yucky, fuss, and ick. And yet the cloth pads hurt my tail bone.

32 days to go. I’m slowly getting the house cleaner. I’m not sure why I prioritize this as much as I do other than… when we come home it will be such a pleasure. I won’t have cubbies of delayed work waiting to crash on my head. I’m even doing my fucking filing.

My garden is wonderful. I have taken pictures. I should post them. Which means I should plug my phone in and transfer pictures. erk.

More doc follow up

I’ve been seeing the chiropractor for a bit now. My arms burn like fire. I’m told that is part of the nerve regeneration/healing process after years of being pinched. God I hope so. My lower back is a web of pain non-stop. My neck feels better. My headaches are diminishing.

I like the doctor on a personal level. He has a great bedside manner. He always has suggestions and tips and explanations. I appreciate that.

I like changes.

Things are moving around in the house. This is glorious for me. I love rearranging. Lots of furniture has left. Very little is going to replace it. We will get a small dresser for Calli. But the armoire and huge dresser are gone. This means Calli’s room and the garage feel much more open and spacious.

The van is mostly packed. Tomorrow I will probably get everything else out of the garage and side shed. Food won’t be packed and that’s ok. There are a few hanging details left to arrange, but things are plugging along.

I ordered Shanna a larger bathing suit because all of her size 6 stuff is getting ridiculously small. She’s between size 6 and 7–it depends on the brand and the style of clothing. It’s kind of funny, this is the closest her age and her size have been in her life.

Signed on for AAA. The ultra-woo-hoo version where they will tow you for 200 miles. Card is in the mail.

Emailed the travel itinerary to most folks. I’m sure I missed some people.

Because I’m a dork I now have Shanna’s birthday present, Santa present, Christmas jammies, and a new fun outfit. Most of these things have just kind of been sitting around waiting for her to get to this size. They are not new purchases. So I will have to look for Calli on the road. They both have ornaments for this year, barrettes, and a glitter tattoo thing for their stockings. I am not going to be willing to come home from this trip and do a lot of Christmas shopping. So I’m trying to be mostly done before I leave.

I have a bad habit of buying stuff WAY too big. Which means stuff sits around waiting for Shanna to grow into things. Then I scramble to have Calli get something. But, she actually gets stuff she wants. Shanna gets whatever I bought however long ago. Ha.

I’m resettling the school stuff. Only 12 more days in our school year. Things are going so fast.


Increased the spoon count in my drawer! This is awesome. I ran away from home and spent a day with Sarah. A day remembering that I don’t have to take care of everyone at every time. Sometimes I can just be with someone. Sometimes I’m ok, even if the things I talk about are intense.

Even when what I want to talk about is why we have had huge problems that blew up in our faces. I can trust you to have the conversation and still act like we had the conversation later. It is unique.

fucking appreciate that Sarah can say that part of the reason she melted down is because as soon as she moved in I added things I was responsible for: writing, Occupy, Wicked Grounds and she couldn’t take what I was sloughing. It helps me see how I screwed up so I can behave differently next time.

I’m not perfect. I screw up. I just don’t necessarily see how my screw ups effect other people. Feedback allows me to tweak.

It’s funny how a few hours with Sarah leave me feeling like I can go accomplish a lot of things. Sarah believes in me.

Splitting the bedrooms is going well. I’m moving the house around again. More furniture is going away. Means more stuff needs to be rehomed or eliminated. I am wicked happy about that. It’s funny how we will have even more of House-by-Ikea after this.