Monthly Archives: March 2017

Penultimate day of the month

I’ve been saying for a few weeks here that I hope to finish by April 1st. That means I have two days to get this done. I took two days off and rested my arms. I don’t feel all rested up or “better” but I feel like maybe I won’t spend the entire day shrieking and crying because I’m in pain and angry about it.

Almost done.

I definitely don’t feel better yet. I think this is going to take months. I’m sleeping a little better: nine hours again last night.

Yesterday someone I’ve known in a distant way for a very long time suggested that I “might want to document my symptoms”. They also said that I might want to consider shopping around and being picky about the doctors I see.

I contained my irritation, but barely.

Oh do keep explaining things to me like I’m stupid, please.

Oh wait. This is why we’ve never been friends. I remember now.

I don’t hate them. They seem like a fine person. But they’ve had the opportunity to know me and they continue to underestimate me with every encounter. Well, that’s fine.

Talk about entitled. My friends come to me with questions about complicated topics. That makes me feel good. People who talk to me as if they know so much more than me so I should pay attention… I’m not in a place in life where I like that dynamic anymore. I did better with it when I was younger. But when you are complaining about “those weird terms” and I can start explaining them in detail because I have worked with them professionally… maybe you shouldn’t be talking down to me. I feel entitled to not having to be talked to like that anymore. I’m spoiled as a motherfucker. Too many people respect me for me to take that step backwards to people who think I haven’t learned shit since I was nineteen years old.

This is part of why I can’t move to Portland. I know waaaaaaay too many people there where I met when I was eighteen or nineteen. I can’t handle dealing with them because they don’t act like I’ve changed.

I am entitled in this area like whoa. I’ve spent the last fifteen years reading and reading and reading and having professional experiences and reading some more. Don’t talk down to me about my subjects. Just don’t.

I like my neighbors. They come and knock on my door to have me explain things because they don’t understand. They know I’m smart. If I don’t understand something entirely, I’ve had neighbors show up with instructions for something that they shove at me so I can read the instructions and explain it. Because I don’t have to start out being an expert at something before I can teach you how to do it. I just need some instructions and five minutes to make a few mistakes.

I’m very very very accustomed to being treated like I’m wicked smart. I’m spoiled as fuck by the people in my life.

Thanks, y’all. Sometimes I can stop and recognize just how much it is true. There are people in my life who have a lot of respect for my intelligence. In fact, most people in my life show respect for my ability to know and figure things out. I understand how true this is when I periodically deal with someone who doesn’t walk in respecting my intelligence.

To be fair, they know shit too. I’m not trying to say I’m smarter than everyone. I’m totally not.

The older I get the more I feel like a feral cat. Treat me exactly how I want or I’m gone.

Life’s too short to spend time pretending to listen to someone who is lecturing me on basic terminology in my field.

I contrast it with the random new-to-me parent who arrived in my house the day before. They spent a few minutes asking questions then figured out that I can answer a lot of fucking questions then we really got into the question asking. That’s more how I like my days to go.

Sometimes I feel like I’m a walking encyclopedia just waiting until you put a nickel in my slot so I have a reason to spurt out information. I spend so much time educating myself for the sole reason that I want to be able to share information. I read so fast and I’m able to cross reference information in my brain to a degree that overwhelms a lot of people. I really love being able to help people understand complex topics. It feels like a purpose. When someone clearly doesn’t want me for that purpose that means I’m around for a different purpose.

I don’t like most other purpose’s. I don’t expect or want people to think I’m “so great” I just want people to think I know a lot of shit. Some of the folks in my extended web don’t necessarily know a lot (I’m thinking in this second of someone I haven’t interacted with much in the last year so don’t think you know who I’m referencing) but they have a desperate need to be Respected For Being So Great. It’s a common dynamic I encounter. I am never going to be popular, but I have intensely loyal friends.

So that leads me to wonder how I’m defining popular. I will never be liked by more than 50% of the population on average. I will always have niche appeal. In okcupid terms, I’m a 5 or a 1. I think in my head “popular” means the vast majority of people think of you as a 3 or a 4 with rare outliers who think you are the best or the worst. Lots of people think I’m the worst. It is a defining characteristic of me that lots of people hate my guts.

Would I like it if everyone loved me? Maybe. But I’m not willing to compromise or change in any way to make that happen. So I accept that lots of people would shoot me on sight. There are religions that believe I should be killed. *shrug* Ok. Usually only the most extreme of sects, so hopefully I’m not actually that far from mainstream ability to ignore my freakiness.

I spend a lot of time being grateful I was born when and where I was. Thank you California, your weirdness embraces me.

I was born in the right time.

I was born in a time of access to information absolutely undreamed about by my foremothers. They could not have imagined the access to learning I have at my finger tips. The access my children will have blows my mind. We are so lucky.

To be fair, I spend a lot of time being surprised that other people are not gorging themselves on this buffet of learning. I get why it isn’t just expected that everyone will spend their time just sitting around inhaling information the way I do.

God I’m so lucky to have time.

I go through periods where I scarcely read: like the remodel. I didn’t plow through books in the last year. But I’m starting to again.

Recently someone said to me that they “can’t” control their children and they are amazed at my control over my kids. You know what? I don’t think I would be able to force my kids to go to school and do homework and then still have the home relationship we have. I don’t think I’m so much better. I think I just have fewer flaming hoops I’m trying to get over with my kids. I’m not better. I made sure I was playing at an easier level. That doesn’t indicate superiority of skill… And there are lots of days you don’t see where I completely lose on the control front. That happens.

I’m not better. I just work a lot harder to make sure I’m held to fewer expectations. That’s kinda the opposite of better.

I blocked Twitter and Facebook on my browser. Let’s see if this helps my emotional ups and downs. I worry about the fact that I won’t have a source of news with this blockage. Maybe that’s ok for a little while, but not forever. I can’t not know what is happening in the world. But maybe I don’t need to know everything either.

Is it laziness?

Yesterday I… just kinda did nothing. I loaded the dishwasher once and took the kids to class and fed them dinner. Otherwise I just sat around and allowed everyone to enjoy my presence. This happened because yesterday when I woke up my arms hurt so bad I was afraid that doing more work was going to result in permanent damage. I’m at that point. Feck.

My shrink called me because she wanted to tell me that my psych is the humanistic one she has ever worked with. When I started responding like she intended a conversation she said, “I didn’t call to get into this.”

Then why the fuck did you call me? To tell me I shouldn’t be upset so stop it?

Oh reeeeeally?

Can’t wait for next fucking Tuesday.

I will be saying, “If you are calling me intending to give me a monologue that I am supposed to silently listen to… send me an email. Don’t call me and expect me to be quiet and just listen. Nope. You aren’t paying for my time.”

Yeah, I’m kinda an entitled cunt sometimes about expecting my therapist to listen to what I say. And when she tries to cut me off to “answer a question” before I’m done speaking I am just about savage. “Do not interrupt me. I am not finished speaking.” Sometimes she looks like a chagrined little kid.

I get interrupted all day every fucking day. When I am fucking paying you to listen do not fucking interrupt me.

People frustrate me with this whole interrupting thing. In my house I can’t get super pissy because all of us do it to fairly similarly rude levels and that’s just how the cookie crumbles. But when I’m paying you to listen to me? Don’t fuck with my air time.

I’m paying very good money for this time. Because I genuinely need it.

I was good about mostly staying off of Twitter. I read what is going on with my closest friends and I asked something that my daughter wanted me to ask and otherwise I didn’t read. If my daughter hadn’t asked me to post something to ask for feedback from folks I wouldn’t have been on as much as I was.

Yesterday we had a playdate with a family Noah met through the pagan meetup. I was… honestly not real cheerful about this. I was anxious about meeting new people and I took it out on Noah by bitching a lot about him inviting over strangers during my supposed last week of this heavy work. It went really well.

I’m not going to get into how the whole day went or details about the family, but this is a kid who has been emotionally wounded by people being uptight about questions. They cried and asked me if I was going to be angry with them for asking very normal questions. No, kiddo. This is a safe place to ask any of those questions. I’m not going to be upset. Let me tell you what you have to do to upset me. It’s pretty specific. There are these few places in the house that are locked. If you get a lock pick and open one of those locks… I’m going to be absolutely furious. Short of that… dude, you are a strange kid who is trying to adapt to a new environment. How can what you do be so bad? You’re fine.

I’m back to having a ‘yes’ house. Do you know how much that means to me? A yes house means that my bedroom is off limits and these two locked cabinets are off limits and if you open any other drawers I don’t care. If you go in any other part of the house, I don’t care. If you play with something that isn’t “For Kids” but it happens to be down low enough that you can reach? I don’t care.

It’s fine. I’ve set things up so that I almost never have to say no. It’s really lovely and inviting and it makes me really happy to be in my space. I hate telling little kids no all the time. It feels so bad. I feel terrible. I feel like I’m hurting the kid by squashing their curiosity. Kids need to explore. Kids need to be curious. Kids need to ask if they can do things. Kids need to be allowed to try and fail and break things. It needs to be ok.

I’m so grateful that I have my house back. The only books I don’t want you easily accessing are hidden by furniture that’s kinda heavy to move.

You can explore. It’s fine. My sex toys are locked up. I don’t think you are going to see them unless you seriously violate my boundaries and then I’m going to be pissed. That’s a line. They are behind a lock. Don’t fuck with that. I’m maintaining your right to innocence. Don’t mess that up.

I tell my kids, “The things that are behind these locks are things you may not want to know about once you are an adult. If you look now you can never unknow what you know. I wouldn’t look any year soon if I were you. You can’t get that vision out of your head and you may not want it there… ever.”

It’s totally Pandora’s box. hahahaha

But unlike Pandora I tell my kids, “When you are 18 if you are sure you want to see… I’ll show you most of it. But not until then and then you have to have those pictures in your head forever.”

So far they say that they are content to trust my judgement. I think it really helps that I show them anything else. They know I don’t say this stuff about much, only when I need to.

Holy tomato. I got almost ten hours of sleep. Yeah, Lamictal was not my drug. Six hours of sleep with four wake ups? That’s not ok. Ten hours with two bathroom wake ups isn’t that bad. And the second wakeup was after ten hours. So really only one middle of the night wake up. That’s absolutely glorious.

My shrink & psych are happy to reference studies when they feel that I will be persuaded to do as they say. When I respond, “Oh yes, let’s discuss the studies. I can cite them chapter and verse and explain why they aren’t very relevant to me personally.” Then I’m told, “Why are you even talking about studies? If you want to make the case for your personal experience you shouldn’t be arguing with studies.” My head is going to explode. If I don’t read the studies they are wielded like a bat against me. “Studies show that marijuana impacts fertility.” “Let’s get into that! Studies show that there is often a three month cessation of ovulation in ovary-carrying-folks when they first start using marijuana. Studies then show that ovulation spontaneously restarts and no one knows why.” “Oh, why are you arguing studies?”


That’s not a particularly useful/relevant reason for me to avoid marijuana while trying to conceive when you compare it with a brand new drug that will cause my body to flush folic acid like it’s excess vitamin C when that is the basic building block of an embryo’s brain.

Come on now. You really think you can get away with saying, “There are drawbacks to both if we get into the studies” and have me not challenge you with exactly what those studies say?! Who the fuck do you think you are talking to? Don’t tell me that I have to do what you say because of studies then tell me I shouldn’t argue studies because it doesn’t help my case. That’s absolute bullshit and I will be yelling at my shrink about it in six days.

It is fucking relevant for me to read these studies? Why? Because my god damn psych will cheerfully give me drugs and not tell me that I need to increase folate.

So fuck you fuck you fuck you.

The funny thing is: my symptom/side effect list on this drug is identical to the list of problems you get when your body is low in folic acid. How… unsurprising. I was probably manifesting the flushing experience.

God I hate my body.

Looking at the symptom list for being low in folic acid and knowing that I recently kinda “flunked” a gene test about folic acid (I can’t hold on to it–it’s genetics!) it makes me wonder how often in my life my behavior problems have been linked to being low in folic acid. I certainly haven’t eaten foods that are rich in FA for most of my life.

Sometimes I’m very curious how my emotional/health problems are linked with my mostly life long shitty eating habits combined with rare physical activity or exposure to the sun.

I’m reading a book that talks about ACE scores. I have a 30x’s greater chance of getting a whole bunch of health problems than other people do. Just because of what happened in my early childhood. Your ACE score can never be undone or mitigated. I think I’m also 30x’s more likely to die by suicide. I keep telling myself that the brain is malleable.

That kid yesterday was at a point where they were not able to hold in their tears because they are afraid of being rejected for their humanity. Goodness I get it kid. I’ve been crying like that for most of my life. You are ok here. Ask your questions. When I don’t know the answer I will look it up or ask my friends. Because my friends will be glad you want to know. My friends are professional educators and they are so happy when kids like you ask questions that stump me.

I don’t get stumped that often. When I do the people who teach me are happy to hear from me. It’s ok. When you ask a question that is hard you are challenging me to grow. Thank you. I appreciate that you think I am capable.

I understand why so many adults are angry about children asking questions. The adults don’t know the answer and they were conditioned by school to think that if you don’t know the answer you are stupid. That’s a deeply triggering experience for most people. Luckily I grew up thinking there was no bottom to the well of my stupidity so I’m not threatened by not already knowing something. It’s an opportunity to learn more.

It was validating to meet some more neighbors in the last week. Within half an hour of talking they were exclaiming about how I’m such a good teacher. They asked me gardening questions. “I don’t know what to put here.” “I’d put something like ____ or ____ or ____.” “Why?” “Oh because of root competition. So you need to….” I’ve got a long explanation ready. You don’t even have to put a nickel in the slot.

I live for the experience of helping people understand the wondrous variety in this world. Something is only weird because you aren’t used to it yet–try it a few times. Soon it will feel normal.

In the terrible Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves movie Morgan Freeman’s character is a Muslim and he says, “Allah loves wondrous variety” and that line has stayed with me through my whole life. It massively colored my impression of what Islam is and how the world works. Just one stupid line from a movie. Allah loves wondrous variety. That means there is wondrous variety and I need to be ready to accept it all. Because it is supposed to be here. Even if I don’t believe in an omnipresent monotheistic god… I still believe in the pit of my stomach that all of this is here because Allah loves wondrous variety.

When people consent to learning something from me, that’s a gift. When I can help you understand the variety of this world and that it is good you are allowing me to be part of something much bigger and better than myself. Thank you.

I want to help spread joy and understanding so much.

There aren’t many questions you can ask me that will upset me. Yes, it’s ok to ask me questions about my background when my kids make allusions to former problems. No, I’m not going to act like it is a big sacred secret and you are bad for being curious. You don’t know me and you want to understand.

Sometimes when I think about how I feel about book characters who have complicated lives I realize… oh. That’s why people are like, “Holy shit you are strong.” Oh.

Yeah, my parents were mean to me. If you have specific questions about that I will answer them seriously but I’m not going to elaborate just because. You don’t need those pictures in your head unless you specifically ask because knowing answers a need within you.

I’ve changed a lot. Sometimes I can see how. I don’t have diarrhea of the mouth any more. I can have a lot of boundaries around these disclosures now that I wasn’t capable of having in the past. Now I understand what it means that I’m traumatizing people by existing and talking about my shit. I think that is true and not true, still. I’m better able to see which people will be traumatized and I don’t tell them.

I love you and I don’t want to be the reason you are hurting. Do I know you well? No. I don’t have to. You can be a stranger walking by on the street. I love you and I don’t want to be the reason you are hurting.

Why can I believe that I am capable of loving every person who walks by (because I feel these rushes of emotion when I focus on peoples faces) but I get so angry at the UU minister who says that the community is based on shared unconditional love? Why don’t I assume that he means the same kind of love I feel for strangers? STOP BRINGING REALITY INTO THIS RELATIONSHIP.

I’m going to have to sit with my feels for a while about that.

Do you know what I am never ever ever ever going to do if I feel suicidal? Go to the ER. Never. What I will do instead is get on my phone or computer and contact as many people as I need to contact and I will ask them to sit on me. I will ask my friends and my community to create a safe space for me where I can’t ruin the good thing we have going here in our relationship. I’ve done it before and I’m not so full of myself that I think I’m too good to fall down like that again. It could happen.

I don’t genuinely hit the emergency point very often. It is rare that I have to ask for babysitters. But I’ve done it and my friends came through. I wasn’t alone for a week until it was safe.

I could make that happen again.

I think of my teacher, Sobonfu, and how she said there is no such thing as a personal problem. Every problem is a problem for the community. My community doesn’t really want me to go have another traumatizing in-patient-psych-experience. I’m really damaged by the ones I’ve already had. My community wants me to work on healing. As a result, they show up when I say, “I need this support right now.” Partially because I’m good at being explicit about exactly what support I need, but also because I am one of the luckiest bitches alive. I love on people and they love on me back. That doesn’t always happen. Some people pour out love and get nothing back.

I see you. I know you love me. I am so very lucky.

Thank you. I am so grateful you are alive.

bodies suck

I’m waking up to research exercise programs for fibromyalgia. I need to get back into regularly exercising and I need to get better about respecting the limits of my body. I keep injuring myself because of my lack of acknowledgment of my limits. This is a problem.

My chiropractor told me that I shouldn’t run for the foreseeable future. He wants me walking, bike riding, he’s excited about the dance lessons, and he has three specific exercises he wants me to get religious about doing every day: body weight squats, planks, and pose #34 on this page.

Ok, that whole website is really cool. I think I’m going to print that out so that when I’m feeling a sore muscle I can look for which stretch will help. I’m inspired.

But those are the three exercises he wants me to get religious about for my particular problems and pain. He told me to stop listening to Noah about adding weight to the squats. That is for people who have different goals from exercise than I have.

My massage therapist wants me to go in to see my woo woo nutritionist for counseling/hypnotherapy with some of my shit. Given that talking to my woo woo nutritionist does make me feel better I’m highly considering that as a better option than continuing to see the psychiatrist who desperately wants me off of pot.

I need my psychiatrist to stop talking to me about getting off pot. I think I need to express a boundary that for the foreseeable future pot and occasional Ativan are all the drugs I want. I barely use caffeine. Ok, I seriously OD on sugar. I am definitely not above finishing the nitrous in the whip cream container. Sometimes I even buy extra nitrous but it’s pretty rare. In the past few years I can otherwise count my drug usage on my fingers and I have no plans in the foreseeable future due to breeding limitations.

I don’t want other drugs. They do bad things to me. I am not even going to be buying more nitrous.

I barely want Ativan. I want about three pills a month. I feel like that is an amount of risk that might be necessary for me. Pot isn’t perfect for using while pregnant, I know… but the consensus is that I have to be medicated and that is the only option that doesn’t drastically increase how much I want to kill myself.

Uhm, what is the exact purpose of me medicating? Because people worry about me offing myself? Riiiiiiight.

The last week was horrible. I feel so ashamed of myself when I go through life weeping because I am not physically capable of stopping the tears. I feel ashamed when someone tells me they love me and I have to walk away because I want to start screaming NO YOU DON’T. NO YOU DON’T. STOP FUCKING LYING. NO YOU DON’T. NO YOU DON’T. NO YOU DON’T.

I feel ashamed of the way I talk about so much of what happens to me. Like I’m bragging or exaggerating for effect. I describe my life and my experiences because it is in writing them down that I understand them. When they happen to me I often am not physically capable of comprehending what just happened. When I write it down I integrate it into my brain. Without writing it down for myself… I know I miss a lot of nuance. Hell, I miss big obvious points if I don’t write it down.

I don’t know if this is common or if this is part of “most cultures” or what, but I feel like I have to pay a price for being born. I have to pay for what I get or I don’t deserve it. My parents should have paid for what happened for my childhood, of course, but now I bear the price for my life. Only my parents didn’t pay for my childhood. Charity bore a huge portion of the burden for my life. I’m aware into the marrow(what a bitchy word to spell) of my bones that I deserve nothing. But I want.

What do I want?

I want so much. I want so very much. I want love. I want joy. I want ecstasy and connection and growth.

No relationship that exists exists outside of boundaries. Boundaries create our existence. Boundaries create you.

And I just got a coupon from our orthodontic office. In this spring, let us know that as we cause you intense pain in your mouth… at least less pain in your chequebook.

I only ever write out chequebook because I saw Jenny write cheque once and I think of it.

I love you so much more than you will ever know. You shape my very existence by existing. I tell Noah about Lakeside. I say, “There is this woman who follows me who went to my kindergarden. Let me tell you about that school.”

Kerry, you matter.

Thank you all for being part of my story. Cos, do you know that you are part of my story of Boston even though I didn’t spend time with you there? When I think of that city I think of you. When I go to places there I think, “Has Cos been here? Does he like this ice cream?”

I think it is funny that I feel like I hear from P more since she moved to Mexico. I don’t think of her less often. I’m so glad you are happier.

I got to see my Sarah this weekend. She looked happier than I’ve seen her in a while even though she is clearly exhausted. Her life is taking a lot out of her. Gosh I like this company she is working for.

Last night I went walking with two of the fantastic queer, wonderful people who validate for me that I get to exist in this world. I was told that these two beautiful, delicious queer people wish I could be their mother. God that felt good.

We create our own gods. We create our own culture. We create our own priorities.

I wish I could be my mother too.

I wish I could have a mother who looks at me the way I look at the world. “Sweetheart, how can I help you to be more effective?”

Christ if I had someone to help me be more effective?……. Watch out.

When I was younger I knew someone who had the license plate “Ingenue”. I don’t feel bad telling you her license plate number because she is dead. I don’t know for sure how she died but she has been gone for almost seven years. I’m desperately afraid she killed herself given what I knew about her. I think about Jill often. She was so beautiful, so talented, so smart, so driven, so accomplished, so much of what I wish I could be. Knowing her convinced me that I didn’t have any desire to peak early. I don’t want to be so well known for what I did when I was young. I miss you, Jill.

I asked my friend if she could handle taking over the insurance payments for the car I bought her  and she said not yet. Ok, I’ll carry another six months. Dearest, Y, you don’t know what you mean to me. I understand that the current of this life has not been fair to you in any particular from small to great and you are doing the best you can. I am so honored to know you. You are so wonderful.

But mostly I understand that what I have flows from Noah. I am where I am because of Noah. Ok, sure I’m a powerful mutliplier but Noah is an amazing source of energy of his own. Thank you Noah.

My life exists because of Noah. My house exists because of Noah. My ability to help people in the current shape exists because of Noah.

And now, he is the source of French toast. Sorry y’all. I’m hungry.



Every so often I get this pang of shame. Oh no! I haven’t reached out to __________ in way too long! I am a bad friend!

Then I realize that the last three times we spoke it was all at my initiation. Maybe I’m not a bad friend. Maybe they aren’t my friend.

Inch by inch

We passed final inspection with three notes. (The inspector asked me if I trust the company enough to finish after he leaves. I said yes–they’ve been great by me.) They had to attach the gutter downspouts to the house and they needed to change the messed up spout for the front yard hose. Everything else is golden.

They sealed the rest of my bedroom and replaced the moldy board. They are done in that room. I just have to paint.

Because the downspouts weren’t done I ran to Home Depot and got rain barrels. I’m so excited. I’ve wanted them for years.

Definitely feeling better without Lamictal.


Noah wasn’t happy with the fact that I can’t sleep and I was crying all day after taking this pill. So he told me to stop. I slept 9 hours. After taking the pill I could get a maximum of 6 hours. I feel less suicidal. I don’t have that whining, keening, “I should die I should die I should die” feeling that I’ve had for the last few days.

My brain chemistry is a funny place. The smallest amount of tweaking fucks me up. But I need massive doses of drugs before they are properly effective. That’s just not fair.

Today is a magical day. Today is the day of the… duh duh duh… final inspection! Which… doesn’t mean we are done with this company because they put the moldy board back around my window pane and I’ll need them to take that off and put a fresh board. It’s not cool to replace everything else in the walls then put something moldy back up so that it can spread again. That’s dumb.

But otherwise!

Sigh. Always one more thing.

There is a nice lady (a friend of the tile guy) who is coming today to start helping with deep cleaning. That feels magical.

I can stop hemorrhaging money now that the remodel is over. Time to hunker down and save money. I’ve got all kinds of stuff I want to do in the future. I need to focus on that bit.

I’ve gotta say, my kids continue to be fantastic. They like me so much. I don’t know what to do with the fact that if I walk outside the house to garden for half an hour they follow me because they miss me and don’t want me to be so far away. They seriously want me to hear their voices every hour of every day so I never feel lonely.

I feel like interacting with my kids is what gets me to recognize things in my behavior that I want to change. I can look at them doing what I do and think, “Oh. That isn’t effective.” Then I have this sheepish moment where I recognize how ineffective my behavior often is. “Oh. I’m not very effective in that way. Shit.” It isn’t that I’ve completely stopped yelling (heh) but I have cut it back so much. It’s that I’m much better at choking myself off and explaining what I need instead of just shouting.

When you yell at someone they sit with fear and can’t learn. It’s not an effective tactic. It inhibits learning.

Shit shit shit. So I have had to cut back a lot. I’d love to be a full time shouty person, but that won’t meet my long-term goals of having fantastically educated children. Shit shit shit.

I can tell I’m doing better than I did a few years ago, even under stress, but I want to get to a better place still.

I’m thinking about downloading one of those productivity trackers that block websites. I need to get off Twitter and self control… I already use so much of it. It isn’t a happy place for me a lot of the time and that’s no ones fault. I just… probably should step back for my own mental health.

I can hang out on Twitter and listen to POC say that every white person is a worthless piece of shit or I can walk around my neighborhood and hang out with POC who seem to be fine with me being around. Maybe Twitter just isn’t the best cross over territory for me. That happens.

No one on the internet owes me kindness. No one does in any manner of interacting with me. White people do genuinely suck as a class. I’m not going to say that anyone should stop bitching about their experiences with white people. It makes sense to need to process all the abuse that happens. That’s legit.

But maybe that’s processing that should happen where I’m not present. That’s not a negative statement on me or them. They need to process. It is healthy for them to deal with their rage. I’m not sure it is healthy for me to read.

I am not personally responsible for each atrocity a white person has committed and spending a lot of time feeling like I should die as a scapegoat doesn’t really help anyone.

I have probably gotten the positive learning out of this dynamic that I can get. It’s time to move on to learning from people in a different venue. The folks who are expressing their feelings… I really don’t want to argue with any of them. They are doing what they need to do and I support that. But I’m not the best listener.

Most people are not physically able to sit and really listen to my story so I’m not feeling like I have to be The One who listens to everyone’s story. Sometimes only people who have had similar experiences are capable of hearing what you have experienced. I’m glad the folks who have been so hurt and abused by racism can find each other and process how to deal with the hell they live with. I don’t have good advice so I can shut up and go away. It’s not my process.

Cause I can’t be on Twitter and limit myself to listening to white people so I feel less bad about the anger that many POC feel. I just can’t do that. Yes, there are non-angry POC. The people who sit there and spend hundreds of hours explaining history with tons of references to prove that they are telling the truth… they are often angry. That’s what drives them. They are magnificent teachers who explain really advanced concepts on Twitter… for free. That energy has to come from someplace and if it comes from rage at injustice, I’m not going to say a word.

Sometimes rage is the right reaction to what happens to you. Defend yourselves. You are totally worthy.

If I were in a better place myself I could handle listening to it. I can’t for a while.

I’m processing endings. Grief, anger, acceptance. I’m skipping denial. It’s over. That’s a fact.

We aren’t done painting the bedroom. We did two-ish hours of work on Saturday and Sunday and I couldn’t handle doing more. My arm is toast. Noah has to paint the ceiling because I literally fucking can’t. Luckily the kids are super excited by the Electric Mayhem theme and they are handling most of the fun painting for me.

I feel so very grateful for my family.

I get why other people are so loyal to their families. I would walk through fire for these people. They are the reason I smile. They are the reason I feel good about continuing to try things. A lot is working out these days.

It is the shared culture thing. I have never shared a culture with someone in my entire life. I have always been on the outside of other peoples shared cultural experiences. I’m an occasional drop in visitor… not one of the group. Until now. Noah and I still have a hard time occasionally with not being the same culture exactly, but I have taught my kids what my view of the world is like from birth. They are so indubitably shaped by me that they comfort me that I am a result of shaping not the freakish non-result that no one can understand.

My kids are a strange mix of religious and non-religious, much like me. They are bold and talkative and friendly to a degree that shocks people and has mothers commenting, “Your children have no boundaries.” Uhm, they have boundaries. All they did was walk up to your kid while we are standing in line and say, “Hi. My name is ______. While we are waiting around, would you like to play? I have some toys.” That’s not a lack of boundaries. I could explain lack of boundaries to you… That’s being hella social and outgoing with good manners. If you say no or turn away my kids will walk away and not pester you. They understand a brush off.

But they believe they have the right to try and see if they can kindle a spark of friendship with anyone.

I really admire that about them. My kids reach for connection like a plant reaches for the sun. They have no shame about this desire that they feel to love people. They don’t believe that other people are too busy to want to deal with them. They believe that some people will want to know them and some people won’t and you don’t find out who is who until you ask. And so many people say yes that it is really awesome to keep asking.

My kids are my social strategy writ large without a base layer of trauma to cause weird pockets of explosions. It feels magical to watch. They are what I could have been if someone had actually loved me and protected me and talked to me.

My beloved Youngest Child doesn’t have a base layer of trauma and that’s a good thing. That’s a kid who is clearly vulnerable to a lot of mental health problems. That kid needs a lot of help learning how to process every feeling. They need a lot of support in talking through things to figure out what action on their part is likely to provoke the right response in other people. They are really prone to uhhh demanding and shouting as a way of getting their way. It isn’t very effective. We sit down and say, “Baby… is this going to be an effective way of getting what you want? What do you really want to have happen here. Let’s talk about it.”

I know that other people think manipulate is a dirty word. I totally don’t. People are always going to have reactions to your actions. You can make conscious choices about how you want to act to provoke the reactions most likely to give you what you want. Like: if you want mom to be sympathetic to whatever it is you are asking her to do… run around and do your chores without asking. Then you can show up looking like a helpful, innocent angel and say, “I finished every single one of my chores without asking. You didn’t have to repeat yourself. Is it ok if I _____?”

Presentation of your wants totally fucking matters.

I have no shame. Your behavior impacts how people treat you. Think about it.

I’m on day 22 of my cycle. I’ve been doing ovulation testing since day 12. No sign of ovulation. There are a bunch of things that could be going on there. Sigh. I can’t help but think that because I’ve been taking a pill that flushes folic acid for a week… maybe that’s not the worst thing this month. Even though I’m starting to not like this missing-a-month thing. It’s starting to feel bad. I had previously felt like it was just kinda unfair how easily I get pregnant when I want to. I have so many friends who struggled and I’m this fucking asshole who just falls pregnant when I want to. Now this. I’m only up to four months of trying. I don’t get to be upset yet. I’m not upset yet. But I’m starting to feel a little nervous.

If I don’t manage to get pregnant again this is going to be really rough. Because I had given up hope of a new baby and I had mostly processed that. Then we spent a fuck ton of money to try and revive that hope. If it doesn’t happen now because I missed my fertility window…

I’m going to have a sad forever.

But don’t freak out about that yet. Shut up, wench. Many of your friends started having kids at your age.

I’ve been working like a dog and not sleeping right for a year. Maybe my body says I need to rest first before I am able to hold a pregnancy anyway.

Now it is time to start actually changing my focus. Home schooling and healing my body will take up my time for a long while here.

I can’t join the church. I don’t have anything to give them. If I join the church then a huge chunk of my charitable giving for the year will have to switch to being for them. I will have to stop doing the direct donating I do to women across the country. Nope. They will also want me to do a lot of work. I know they say that people “don’t have to” but the thing is… I have a breadth of skills that would make them pester me all the god damn time. I’m good at a lot of things. I am perceived as being So Energetic so why don’t I just help a little more. And I believe that the reason I earn my right to keep breathing is I do work for people. That’s not a healthy relationship for me to step into at this stage.

The kids aren’t real motivated to join. They liked the pagan kids meetup more than they have liked the UU church even though they think they will never be pagans. Noah may take them back to more meetups.

We are California woo. It’s good enough for us. We don’t need a label that will let us join your community. We won’t agree with your spiritual beliefs anyway.

I don’t feel like I will be joining the pagan community. My wounds there are deep and not the fault of anyone in the community and I don’t want to take out my issues on someone who had nothing to do with my anger.

And I would. Let’s be honest.

I like being around my kids because they are the only people on the planet with whom I don’t have to work hard at not projecting my issues. I know my kids are innocent of the things that hurt me. I’ve been with them most of the hours of their lives. I know what they have and haven’t done. It’s so easy to be nice to them.

I have two hours to finish cleaning up the living room.

I’m half tempted to keep wearing my pajama pants today. But I’ll get dressed and pretend I’m a grown up or some shit. I WANT MY HOUSE BACK. I WANT A PAJAMA DAY.

Soon. Soooooon. Soooooooooooooon.

We met some new-ish to the neighborhood neighbors this weekend. They were super friendly and thrilled to be meeting neighbors. I’m looking forward to talking to them a lot more. They are also new to gardening and trying to figure it out. So we spent a while talking about ways to manage their beds and the weeds and the neighborhood cats and… It was fun. We will talk to them more.

I’m starting to hang out with the neighbors more again. I’m not doing as much as I wish I was doing yet, but I’m still transitioning. I want to hang out with the lady on the corner soon. I have fun talking to her. I’m going to miss the family that is moving away soon. We’ve had a lot of fun together.

I keep telling my kids that life is about endings and beginnings. When something ends in your life it creates space for something new to appear. That’s not bad. It can hurt sometimes, but it isn’t bad. Life is about change and growth. That can’t happen without creating space for the growth.

Sometimes a relationship traps you. You can’t change until you get out of it.

I really hope I will get to find out what forever feels like.

Short update on meds

Still not sleeping well. Still in extra pain though it is not as bad as it was yesterday. The nose drip is gone (phew). My stomach pain sucks. I am irritable as a mother fucker. I still feel suicidal.  I’m scared to keep trying this. I’m scared to stop because then I have a doctor who can once again call me non-compliant.

I don’t know how to have a positive result here.


My boundaries are weaker than normal. I had a conversation with EC this morning about sexual assault and rape that probably got a hair more explicit than necessary. (I wasn’t gross or extreme.) It came up that sometimes rape produces babies. I told her I’m one of them.

Her response was that now she understands why I made sleep away camp so many points–I don’t want to be away from her so I’m trying to make it hard for her to get away. I thought that was a really sweet way to look at it. We then proceeded to explain that actually sleep away camp costs more points than day camp because it costs 7x’s as much money and I have to drive you hours away to get there. But sure, I am sad about losing time with you. I like being near you so very much.

She asked me if she and her sibling were born of rape. I told her no. I told her that she was loved and wanted from the second a sperm hit an egg. I wanted her before that even happened. I want my babies. I want to be allowed to love them.

Yesterday someone I follow on the internet expressed that white people want to be loved by everyone in the world and it’s ridiculous. I can’t deny that I wish everyone loved me. I’m not going to change my behavior or beliefs to try and earn that love so I know that a great many people hold me in contempt. That’s life. But yes, I would really like to be allowed to love everyone and have them love me back.

I’m not sure why that’s so awful.

Letter to psych

After 4 pills of Lamictal I have a nose that is leaking like a faucet, a stiff neck (specifically pain in a location where I never have pain), intense jaw pain, my stomach hurts like a mother fucker and I can barely eat, I have slept 6 hours each night after taking the pill and can’t sleep more for love or money. I woke up this morning incredibly suicidal. I sobbed for a very long time because I’m so tired of living in this disgusting, pathetic, unwanted body.

I don’t think this is going to be my wonder drug.

More data?

I have 17 firm kid RSVPs for Easter and I know that Noah and my kids have invited people who are not emailing me but who plan to come. I don’t know how many. I said about five more hoping that they haven’t invited more than eight people but I really don’t know.

The kids and I are weeding like mad to shape the plants for ease of hiding eggs. Right now the grass (that I didn’t plant and I don’t want) is growing like a forking jungle because of the rain. It’s good for hiding eggs if I keep it out of the plants I don’t want to choke out. Which requires a lot of hours of very careful weeding.

Oh it’s so fun. What is wrong with me? Why is yanking things out of the ground so god damn satisfying? It just is.

I’m adding plants, because that was always in my plan. I’ve avoided planting close to the house for years because I knew I wanted to paint. Flowers flowers flowers flowers. Oh golly gee my yard is so colorful and wonderful. When I walk around I feel excited. LOOK AT ALL THE COLORS OH MY GOSH THIS IS SO AWESOME.

In non-Easter news… I don’t have all the details yet, but my massage therapist wants me to host a massage party where she and some of her friends come to my house with massage chairs. She says she has done this before and it’s fun. Oh. Hunh. Well, I’ll ask around… Anyone think they might be interested in such a thing? She’s very reasonably priced ($1/minute) and one of the best therapeutic massage therapists I’ve experienced in many years of seriously hunting out body care. She can pick up my nerves and put them back into place so that my arms stop burning. She can do this grab and yank think that causes my back pain to practically go away and that injury happened when I was approximately 9 years old. Being able to make progress on my back issues is really a big deal. She’s fantastic at her job.

Let me know if you might be interested.

She’s the reason I am able to stand erect after all these months of tile work. She’s kind of a miracle worker.

I’m doing a bunch of research on Lamictal and I’m feeling kind of afraid. Yesterday I had a very sore jaw, an upset stomach, and my nose was running like a faucet. All of those are considered common side effects.

Here’s one passage of data about it and pregnancy:

Lamotrigine. The North American Anti-Epileptic Drug Registry indicates that women taking lamotrigine (Lamictal) while pregnant were 24 times as likely as other women to give birth to a child with a cleft lip or cleft palate. In absolute terms, this translates into about one baby born with a cleft lip or palate for every 100 exposed to lamotrigine prenatally. Four other registries, however, have not found an increased risk of cleft lip or cleft palate with this drug. And because lamotrigine protects against depression in bipolar disorder, some experts advise considering it as an option to use during pregnancy.

So it’s not a big pregnancy risk in terms of deformity. But pot doesn’t have any increase in deformity at all. None.

I’m having a lot of mixed, cranky feelings about my med doctor disliking pot as much as she does. She says that she doesn’t want me to use it because there aren’t real studies proving that it works and there aren’t real studies PROVING that it is safer than the other drugs she wants me on. She describes my pot level as being extreme. Bud tenders call me a microdoser. That’s a hilarious combination. Also: it seems to be really common for folks to get up to the same multiple of dosage I use for pot with other psych drugs. So it’s not like her real argument is, “No one should use 20x’s the base dose of any drug.” Her argument is: “You are self selecting when you need more marijuana and obviously you can’t be trusted to evaluate your own needs.”

She doesn’t say that. But that’s what she means. And I’m feeling really cranky. Because you know what pot doesn’t do? It doesn’t increase my god damn stomach pain. It doesn’t make my nose drip. It doesn’t make my jaw ache.


I’m feeling nervous and cranky and irritated because pot helps with: stomach pain, digestion issues, nausea, anxiety, depression, AND pain. Lamictal so far? Uhm… it’s supposed to flatline my emotions more, but it will otherwise have no positive and many negative effects on my body.

Why isn’t she encouraging me to do the thing that increases my quality of life substantially without causing me problems?

I have sadness.

This is what “help” looks like.

Conform and comply with demands to prove that you “trust the system” and you are a good patient. The actual impact of the help upon your life can’t be the measure of success. The measure of success is your compliance with demands.

My body is very medication resistant. I NOW HAVE GOD DAMN GENE TESTS THAT THIS SAME GOD DAMN DOCTOR PERFORMED to know this for a fact. It isn’t my imagination. I’m not making it up. I have to use a substantially higher than average amounts of any medication because my body flushes drugs like whoa. Then I have less positive effect and more side effects. THIS FUCKING WOMAN GAVE ME THE TEST THAT PROVED THAT THIS ISN’T IN MY HEAD IT IS IN MY GOD DAMN GENES.

But the drug that does the most good for me? Oh no! Due to an oppressive drug regime we haven’t Properly Studied It With Science therefore the thousands of years that people have been using it with great effect Just Doesn’t Count.

This is part of why I get so angry about the way people use science as a religion/weapon.

Instead I must use this Pharmaceutical Medication Which Science Invented And Says Is So Awesome. By The Way A White Guy Will Get Rich And Isn’t That Just How The World Should Work?

I’m way the fuck low on pot in my body because she asked me to downgrade my pot usage like whoa so I can feel the Lamictal effect. Also, because it is mildly sedating I’m not supposed to use much pot because of possible driving impact.

So my body feels like absolute shit and I’m so fucking angry I want to punch walls.


I use like 5 Ativan in a 3 month period. My usage of it is very reasonable and appropriate and good. Pot is my primary drug because it is so god damn effective.

Yes, my tolerance climbs fast. IT’S ALMOST LIKE WE KNEW THAT WAS UNAVOIDABLE.

The funny thing is: that website I quoted above with the pregnancy data? That’s prescribing Lamictal for depression which is only a subset of my mental health problems. For anxiety, which is a much much bigger chunk of my mental health problems they recommend Ativan. WHICH IS WHAT I WENT INTO THE DOCTOR ASKING FOR.

Ativan is risky with consistent use, but I use 5 pills in 3 months. I’m not at risk from it. As opposed to a daily pill. And the risk is an additional deformity in 10,000 cases instead of additional cases out of 100 patients.

That doesn’t seem like as big of a risk to me. Looking at the zeroes.

I’m so stupid with how I hate science and reference research constantly.

Oh, the pot also really helps with my ADHD impulsivity. Guess what Lamictal won’t help with?

I don’t understand doctors.



I am in a foul mood. I’d like to hurt someone. I don’t really know why. I’m touchy and defensive and angry.

Rules exist to make the flow of society better. The thing is, an awful lot of the flow of society would like to steam roll right over huge swaths of people. They are expendable. They are not important. They barely count as people in the eyes of the leaders in society.

Don’t believe me? Watch what is happening to health care in our country. We are being eaten alive. This would not happen if we considered all citizens equally valuable. Instead we say that if women do not go back to work 60 days after having a baby they don’t deserve health care.

Jesus H Christ. That’s not even the full fourth trimester. Your body has not fucking healed let alone giving the baby enough time to adjusting being in the outside world. That’s completely fucked up.

Because we don’t care about people.


I hate the members of my government.

Fucking senators are voting to repeal the ACA. They are voting to eliminate our privacy on the internet. Fuck our government.

But it’s the best! Thing! Ever!


Do I know what is better? Not really. Good thing I’m not elected to solve problems.

Who do rules serve? If they do not serve you, why are you following them? Is it actually psychologically healthy to conform to rules that hurt you?! BUT WE PUNISH PEOPLE EVERY GOD DAMN DAY FOR NOT DOING THINGS THAT HURT THEM.

I hate my species.


My therapist gave me a questionnaire this week in session. She wanted to evaluate which “life traps” I’m struggling with. She thinks that entitlement is a real problem because I answered the question “Rules don’t apply to me” with “Yeah that’s mostly true.” She shook her head and looked stern. Let’s look at this though. Is it entitlement?

From when I was a tiny child I went from place to place. Everywhere had different rules. Don’t eat unless it is this time of day and you are standing in this place. Don’t read this book without permission. Don’t get food without permission. You have to take this test before you are allowed to go into that class.

I have found that I have slipped sideways through life. Is it entitlement or is it that I have never been embedded in a society/group? If you are moving from group to group rapidly… it becomes really obvious which rules are arbitrary or exist to make a particular person feel comfortable. I don’t need to follow most of those rules, sorry.

But when I walk into someplace like a museum I carefully read the rules, talk to my children about the rules, and relay harshly what will happen if these rules are broken. I am sometimes incredibly rule bound. It depends on the circumstance.

I decide which rules apply to me and when. Like, lots of people told me I MUST TAKE THE SATs AND THE GREs. Nope. Went to college and grad school never taking a big standardized test. No one asked me to? It wasn’t actually important? It may be a thing that most people on that path just do… but no one cared if I did.

Is that entitlement?

My life has not been standard. It isn’t that I always get my way (I don’t) and it isn’t that I refuse to ever behave (I’m very situation dependent) but I evaluate how I fit into each system.

Like: when I was a teacher there was a firm school rule that no food should be in classrooms. Guess what? I had a closet full of sealed foods. Because I had a lot of hungry students who couldn’t concentrate on what I was trying to teach them. I had long, obnoxiously pointed conversations with my students about the fact that such rules exist to protect the integrity of the building from pests and to ease the load on the overworked janitorial staff. If we can understand why the rule exists we can follow practices to ensure that the spirit of the rule is followed. We can scrupulously pick up after ourselves so that no pests appear and the janitorial staff has no idea we are making messes they never see. Everyone is happy. The kids who need food do better in class and I’m not wrecking something that doesn’t belong to me or making other people slave after my bad habits.

To me that seems like a win? Is it entitlement?

I listen to people talk about their religions. None of those rules apply to me because I do not share your faith.

I listen to people talk about the “rules” they have internalized about books or music or art… I don’t need to follow those rules.

The fucking guy in the tile store told me I couldn’t buy all these weird mismatched tiles because it would look stupid. He said I couldn’t make something interesting with so much different tile. Guess what, motherfucker? I made a goddamn gorgeous piece of art. As he told me I couldn’t. Because that isn’t done.

Is that entitlement?

I was told I had to honor my mother and father. Instead I pressed charges against my father and abandoned my mother. Is that entitlement?

I think it is funny. Sometimes when my children want to sliiiiiiide on a rule I respond with such hostility. “Oh, you think you’re above the rules?” Because it depends on which rules we are talking about. When someone says, “Don’t touch me” I act like that rule is carved in granite and anyone who violates it deserves to be flayed.

But when someone tells me I’m not allowed to eat I evaluate if I am going to be able to function in the ways required of me without eating. My body doesn’t do so hot with sudden gaps in when my body feels it needs food. I completely flip out. It’s emotional more than physical but I get pretty crazy. I’m not manageable. People want me to be to robotically perform even when they randomly and arbitrarily cut off my right to take care of my body. I can’t do that. Is that entitlement?

I don’t think I’m entitled to more than other people. I’m just aware that different people have different needs and mine are rigid in ways that other peoples needs aren’t.

If someone who is blind turns down an electric wheelchair because it isn’t an accommodation they need is that entitlement? Are they entitled if they insist on getting their god damn cane back?

I rigorously follow customs laws when I’m moving between countries. I don’t try to squeak anything by. I follow airline rules… mostly. Except for the few times I’ve managed to get two people into a bathroom for antics no one saw anyway. WHERE’S THE PROBLEM?

Public sex. That’s supposed to be totally not ok. I evaluate if anyone will walk up on me or not. Sometimes it really is ok to fuck like a wild animal in the woods. Even though people tell me that it isn’t. Whatever.

I’ve never understood why blind rule following is supposed to be some kind of exalted life level? Doesn’t that make you a lemming?

In most places if they have rules I don’t want to follow I just stop going. Is that entitlement? I can’t be bothered to try to conform to community standards that won’t apply to me in a few weeks or months. That sounds like a lot of god damn work for basically no reward. So I can make other people feel like their rules are So Valid. Errr, no. I don’t care.

Some people have a super firm rule about no feet on furniture. In my house I do whatever the fuck I want and in other peoples houses I’m paranoid about not being the reason they have to spend money. If I don’t explicitly follow the rules I follow the spirit of not-being-the-reason-people-have-to-fix-shit. Is that entitlement?

I don’t want to make your life harder. I try really hard to watch the edges of what I need and keep it away from other people. But I’ll evaluate how I fit into your rule system–not you.

I feel like the origins of this were partially getting yelled at in kindergarden because I was not physically capable of coloring inside the lines. I can’t follow your fucking rules. Shut up. Leave me the fuck alone. I am not fucking bad.

I’ve had people tell me I “can’t” do with paint what I do. Fuck you. Watch me.

Rules exist to tell you what you can’t do and what you can’t be. They exist to shave people down for the sake of easing interactions. I’m not really of a size and shape that is interested in being shaved down. I am what I am. I can do what I can do. I can’t do what I can’t do. I’m very aware of my limits.

I’m not going to pretend my limits are your limits to make you happy. I can’t; I will fail.

Sometimes I’m told that I “have” to send my kids to school. Oh really? I do? I HAVE TO? No, no I don’t. I have to educate them. That means… gosh that is broad and non specific. There are no fucking regulations on every kid in a private school in my state… none of them do what public schools do. So why in the fuck should I try that hard to match the public school experience when thousands or millions of kids already don’t? Why are they allowed to do what their teacher feels is acceptable but I’m supposed to mindlessly follow the public school curriculum? Nope.

Is that entitlement? I don’t home school my kids because they are special. I do it because public education has become a weapon in this country not a tool to help people. Is that fair? No. When I hear kids talk about the problems they are having I feel like my most common response is: “Don’t conform. Don’t try to be who they are telling you to be that is in conflict with who you are and it is causing you distress. Stop trying to conform. Just be who you need to be.”

Schools want you to conform because that makes it easier to shove you through the system. Like how I’m fascist about how my plates line up because I want them to get as clean as possible in the dishwasher.

The thing is, children are not plates who need to be sprayed off. Every child shows up in school with a specific set of skills and deficits that isn’t like anyone else. We don’t help each kid figure out their own needs. We say, “You are in grade x so you will be taught y.”

It isn’t evil, I hope. I’ve been a teacher. I understand the need to streamline the system when you have 150 students and you only have 7 hours in a day so how in the hell do you cater to each kid? I get it.

I just don’t want to send my kids to be part of it.

Yeah, that’s probably entitlement.

I live right near the California School for the Deaf. We toured their facilities with our homeschool group. If every school worked like that my kids would be enrolled tomorrow and would never be permitted to skip a day of school. Why? Because each student has a teacher they know super well. Because class sizes are usually around 6 kids per teacher because otherwise sign language conversations are too complicated. Goodness that is an ideal teaching environment.

Hell yes. I’d sign my kids up for that. That is effective, useful, wonderful teaching.

I want every student in America to have that experience. If someone high up in government were to put out an all-call to people to start teaching so we can lower class sizes… I’d go back to teaching. I’d put my kids in school.

If someone in government announced a cap of 20 kids per classroom in elementary through high schools I’d fast track a teaching credential (mine is expired) as quickly as humanly possible. I’d want to be part of that so bad.

I don’t really want to be part of abusing 150 kids a day though. When you pay as little attention as I had to pay… you are neglecting people. There are problems I missed that I should have helped with.

But I wasn’t physically capable of helping that many people in that amount of time. I’m a failure at that task. It is absolutely true. There might be people who can be successful given those parameters, that person is not me.

I’ve been abused enough in my life that I won’t consent to more abuse just for the sake of “following the rules”. Is that entitlement?

Ok. I guess I’m entitled.

Flailing towards routine

Phew. It’s 8:33 and I feel very guilty about being on the computer. I should be working. Maybe if I summarize some schtuff I’ll stop feeling paralyzed. Maybe. It does work sometimes.

I am totally going to end up upgrading to the paid version of tracking my IP. I have maxed out the free address book.

Do you know how wonderful that feels? My shrink told me she is shocked that I can get so many people to read me. She says that given that I don’t promote my stuff on facebook she is shocked anyone bothers to come to my website at all because she doesn’t go to anyone’s website. In a small voice I said, “Well… most people use an RSS feed…” She laughed and said, “Still!”

I know that I ain’t shit. I’m not trying to build a big platform or be famous. I’m not making money off of writing and I don’t try to. I document for myself and to share with my friends so that they can understand me better. I think my relationships benefit a lot from how much I overshare. People understand better what is going on with me.

Do you think you could imagine I had all this shit going on if I hadn’t told you? Probably not. Cause you can’t look at someone and tell.

Except in some ways you kinda can. Not for everyone. There is that whole black don’t crack thing that allows African Americans to endure horrifying abuse and their faces don’t look degraded. My face is already showing signs that I’ve had a hard life. My mom looked haggard and destroyed by 50. I expect to wrinkle early and hard. I already have deep lines in my face from scowling and crying.

So you can kinda tell a lot about someone by looking at them. Only you can’t. Don’t judge people by how they look you asshole.

I’m name calling all the time lately and it’s a real problem. I need to knock it the fuck off. I’m not being appropriate.

Now I have a knee jerk reaction to the word “inappropriate”. Thanks, life.

The house is coming along! I’m not done done done but I will have everything put away in its final home by Sunday. I’m totally serious. If they finish my forking bedroom today I will even have all of the painting done by Sunday. I’m that close. Ok, maybe I’ll finish painting on Monday. BUT I’M THAT CLOSE. I have two, maybe three days of painting left. That’s so exciting at this stage. I’ve done 88 hours of painting and hundreds of not-counted hours of tiling.

And my house is looking awesome. It isn’t quite done yet but I will finish in the next four days. A nice lady who is a friend of my awesome tile guy is showing up on Monday to start cleaning. We agreed that this isn’t a job she can just give me a price for. I will pay her by the hour and she will come until she’s done cleaning. Which is exactly how I paid for the tile and I feel super happy about that arrangement. I don’t feel fleeced at all. I feel like I’m getting honorable work for honorable pay. That’s a symbiotic relationship and it’s positive.

I’m struggling with the kids right now. It’s in me more than it is in them and I know it. I’m an asshole. Here I go with name calling. I’m impatient and tired and I feel sick of being taken for granted. One of the problems with me being super awesome to my kids basically all the time for their entire lives… they completely fucking take me for granted. They expect fairies to magically make their lives happen the way they want. I’m getting fucking cranky about this. As I’m facing down the prospect of another baby I am 100% out of patience with big kids who want to be babied. YOU ARE NOT A BABY ANY MORE. I DO NOT NEED TO DO THIS FOR YOU. Which is complicated. You can’t just yank the rug out from under them and have them do well. Scaffolding. Stepping up of responsibility.

But sometimes, my inner child wants to get really fucking spiteful about how no one fucking carefully showed me and I GOD DAMN FIGURED IT OUT. That doesn’t mean I need to take it out on the kids.

But I should step back from doing so much for them. If it makes me angry and makes me feel drained it isn’t healthy for me to do. I shouldn’t neglect them, that’s not what I’m saying, but I do baby my kids a lot. I don’t need to baby them so much. It would be ok if I stood there and narrated how to brush their own hair patiently until they can do it without direction. I don’t need to take it over and do it because I do it better. That’s a vanity asshole move. If the kids haven’t done their chores and I have, it’s ok for me to get a treat sometimes and not them. Not ALL THE TIME because that’s not cool, but sometimes it is. They are not owed a share of every good thing I get. It’s not like they turn around and offer me some of everything they get.

Our relationships are shifting and I need to shift and I’m not doing it gracefully. I didn’t understand when I was a kid how much of adulthood is about the same god damn phases you have as a kid. You do a thing for a while then it doesn’t work any more and you have to change. The having to change never stops.

I mean, there are old people who calcify. They tend to be miserable and rigid and they die early and unhappy.

I would really like to know what it feels like to have a 40 year old child who loves me. That’s 32 years away. That’s a lot of years during which I am going to have to change and suck it up and grow in order to deserve that relationship. That feels like a lot of pressure.

I haven’t been able to deserve having a father or mother who love me so it is hard to believe that I am capable of deserving having anyone else love me. I know Noah picks me and is here and demonstrates that he wants me. But there is something just completely different about that blood connection for me.

I feel like I do a lot of work in trade for Noah staying. I don’t feel like I should have a similar kind of trade with my kids. I buy Noah’s love. I’m blatant and forthright about that fact. Yup. I do that. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed and I’m going to keep damn doing it. I don’t think I deserve Noah. So I will do tons and tons and tons of labor so that I can sweeten the deal and maybe he will put up with my pathetic, sorry ass.

I can’t do that with my kids. That’s more complicated.

I’ve never had a relationship like this before. I keep thinking of the Rihanna lyric from Work:

All that I wanted from you was to give me
Something that I never had
Something that you’ve never seen
Something that you’ve never been!

One of my teachers, I believe Sobonfu, told me that it is impossible to imagine something if it is not true somewhere. I don’t know how to imagine the relationship I want because if it exists I haven’t seen it. I have seen shadows of it, but I haven’t seen anything in my whole life that would actually work for me.

Which makes me feel like I am just broken. But that’s not it. Those relationships are shaped the way they are because they are meeting the needs of the people in them. I have different needs.

What does that look like?

It doesn’t mean that all of those people are doing it wrong.

It just means that I need something different.

And the waves go up and the waves go down.

Do you know what I find funny? My shrink adamantly told me that she wouldn’t treat me differently if she had known longer about the ADHD. But I’m being offered different drugs now! And everyone is so weirdly peppy about my impulsiveness now. (Everyone being my psychiatrist and my psychologist.)

My impulsiveness is no longer a sign of mania. It’s a sign that I have a magical ability to hyperfocus that other people lack.

But the attitude/treatment is the same! Right?


Now I’m on Lamictal. No one mentioned (not the psychiatrist, not the psychologist, not the pharmacist) that there is a major alcohol interaction and you aren’t supposed to drink any alcohol at all while taking it. Oh thanks, everyone. #teamfail That’s an important detail, motherfuckers. Y’all made sure to tell me about the potentially scary as shit rash and every other weird symptom (my psychiatrist said: “You don’t really get common side effects and you get almost every rare side effect so I’ll read those off”) but not a simple, “Alcohol and this seriously don’t mix.”


But in other news I have all the pots I want to have in the bathroom. I need 7 more plants to fill them all. When I’m done I’ll have more than two dozen plants in here.

You don’t know what this means to me.

I organized the bathroom last night now that the final piece of furniture is here. Everything fits. Everything is neat and tidy. It looks pretty.

But one of the toilets is running and running and running. I will be drawing their attention to this today. Final inspection… tomorrow?

It is dragging on because we are trotting out every thing wrong with the house. “Oh we have  broken outlet in the garage. We have a leak under the kitchen sink. We have we have we have.”

Final inspection tomorrow? Friday at the very latest?

GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. I’M OUT OF MONEY. Ahem. I’m kidding. Only I’m not kidding. The loan we got for the house? It’s within $7k of being maxed out. You can stop working now. You’ve already given me a bill for $6k. Time to be done.

Luckily there are no lump payments at the end. *phew*

The amount we get back from the arbitration will just sit in savings to rebuild the buffer. It isn’t very helpful in terms of paying back debt. Because $9k barely makes a dent.

How did this become my life? I deal with quantities of money that make me want to puke.

The loan is so high because my credit cards are paid down to zero. They are above 18% interest. The loan is at 3%.

My mortgage is down to about $50k. Which means I’m back up to $220k of debt. I was here like 6 years ago. Weep.

The last two years I haven’t been focusing on debt repayment enough. The road trip and the cruise ate a lot of god damn money that, if I were more responsible, I would have put on my house.

Self control is not the easiest thing in the world. But I want the freedom that lack of debt represents so bad. Why did I make such an expensive fucking bathroom? Wait till you see it. It’s magic. I’m going to spend a lot of my life in this room. I don’t regret a penny.

Why am I on a new drug? Because impulsiveness is creeping up. Know how I went a little nutty last year at nearly this time with stepping out in ways that weren’t ok with Noah? Is it partially spring fever?

I’m antsy and I’m not yet at the point where I’m getting in trouble but I can sure smell the potential in the air. I want. I want to hunt.

Which feels so awful in so many ways. My psychiatrist said, “Maybe you could explore more intimacy with your husband.” I laughed. I told her that I can’t afford enough babysitting to pay for Noah to satisfy me. She looked confused. I told her that she dramatically underrates my capacity. I go through periods where I like having sex 10-25 times a week. With lots of people. No, the amount of sex I can get with my husband is not…

Not what I’m hankering for when I am pawing the ground and WANTING.

I feel so many feelings and they are all tangled up. It isn’t even that I want to have sex with other people. Though I wouldn’t mind. It isn’t that I’m longing for a particular person. I want the hunt and I feel so ashamed.

The older I get the more I see this impulse in myself as being kind of awful. I don’t form real relationships where I support other people when I’m hunting. I drop in for a few hours and leave. I’m not here to support you. I’m here to have fun while you have fun and then I’m moving on. This isn’t about mutual life support.

I feel ashamed because I feel like I mislead people. I feel like we hurt multiple mostly-female identified (that’s a complicated explanation) last year because they expected a lot more relationship and support in their sex than we as a couple were handing out.

We are selfish assholes and that really sucks.

It isn’t that I don’t want to have more of a relationship with people I have sex with. It’s that it is very friendship and very “What I have to spare” shaped instead of being more like a dating/romantic relationship where you bloody well better stretch for each other. I feel like this demonstrates how selfish and how completely inappropriate for polyamory I am. The kind of support people are supposed to give… I don’t really give.

I want to drop in for the sex, provide some emotional support, pat you on the head and leave.

Only I also want to be friends with you and hear about your life and your family and what makes you tick.

I’m selfish and I care about what I want more than what anybody else wants.

Supposedly this Lamictal crap is going to help keep me from impulsively fucking up my life. It will slow my brain down. It should be something close to being very stoned, but fucking cheaper. $1.98 for 30 pills. Holy tomato that’s god damn miraculously cheap. I’d god damn love to save the money I spend on pot.

Money money money. My whole family is weird bouncing off me and money. My kids have an interesting point of view. Can’t waste food because oh no we might waste $4. But let’s go on a stupid expensive cruise. What the ever loving fuck?

My psychiatrist asked me why I don’t go running more to sublimate my feelings. I said because I guarantee you I could find people to fuck on my running route. They could be strangers standing outside. I’m good.

Her eyes got wide. I don’t think she has nearly as broad of an experience background as she wants to believe.

But who really does? I probably am not as experienced as I want to believe.

I’m supposed to seriously step down the pot usage on this drug because otherwise I might be a zombie who is incapable of thinking/processing/getting shit done. All in the name of making me “better”.

I am a better person if I am less me. This is one of the most true statements I know.

I was invited to Alaska for up to 10 days in August. I’m trying to decide how many days I can handle. I’m very excited. I shouldn’t spend the money but luckily it is only plane fare then I get to stay with friends. I get $100 of slush/fun/disposable money for myself. If I don’t do anything fun before then my plane ticket won’t be a big deal. My slush fund mostly goes for bubble tea these days. Holy tomato I love bubble tea.

I’m going much further north in Alaska this time. One of my buddies is up there. I want to talk to him. I haven’t done so in many years. I met him when I was 19. He came to town to stay with/play with my boyfriend. Of course this resulted in us having a multi-year on/off play relationship. I went to his wedding but my (by then ex) boyfriend wasn’t invited. Ha. I got the best man out of this dynamic. Nyah. Ahem. I’m kidding. I still adore my ex. He’s a good man too. And my buddy isn’t mine the way some of my friends are mine. We’re loosely leather family but the bonds are a bit weak since I had kids.

That’s how it is with most of the leather community for me. I’m… barely still connected. It isn’t that I lack love. I lack time.

But I get to go to Alaska. I’m so excited. He will be recovering from surgery so we won’t be super outdoorsy and athletic but that’s ok. I will hike alone. With a gun because you need one for bears. I’ve done it before.

That feels good to say. I’m competent to go hiking with a gun to protect myself from bears. Maybe I should visit the shooting range again before going, but it’s just a refresher cause it’s been a while.

Thank you, dear Owner. You taught me so many useful life skills. Like: how to stop a bear. You were a good Daddy.

I take lessons from whoever can offer them.

I’m kinda focusing on Alaska so I don’t shoot myself in the foot with impulsive desire to not be bored. I have something to look forward to! Eye on the prize!

This is why I maintain a balance of short, medium, and long-term goals. Otherwise I have no way to handle my enormous impulsivity. I want. I want. I want.

I want to go on craigslist and find someone and go home with them. I miss craigslist hook ups. I could find someone in less than four hours. Maybe not. There are times I strike out. But not that often! I’m sure that frequency would increase as I get older. But I’m not testing the theory out.


But I already feel guilty. Because I want to. Shit.

This is my only day of not being scheduled to run all over the bay this week. Sunday was a birthday party on the peninsula. Monday was driving south for the DMV and errands. Tuesday was Oakland/Berkeley for a bunch of errands and appointments. Today is “rest”. Ha- only kid classes to go to and they are nearby. Tomorrow Eldest Child has an orthodontic appointment in the peninsula. Friday is medical appointments. Luckily Saturday isn’t driving either. Saturday Noah and I have a date to make an elaborate dessert together.

Ok, for the record: Noah is amazing. The cooking and planning and cleaning that he is doing lately blows my mind. He has really… ok I feel like a dick for saying this but he’s manned up. I feel like this is the most motherfucking adult man I’ve dealt with. He gets his shit done. (I have seen other adult men in the wild. They just haven’t been this intimately connected to my life.) He’s getting everything done. He’s adulting like women I know. That’s sexist and bigoted and awful but holy crap. He’s as effective as a woman and that makes me want to kneel down and kiss his feet. Holy shit thank you honey.

My shrink stays telling me I need to be nice to him forever because she’s never in her life heard of a husband who is so accommodating and awesome.

I don’t deserve what I have in any way shape or form. I’m an ungrateful twatwaffle who talks bad about his demographic all the time. I’m so mean. But he stays anyway and he’s nice to me. He’s so nice to me. He’s nice because he cooks and he cleans and he has learned how to watch that nasty tone of voice with the kids. He’s nice because he wants as much sex as I’m up for and he doesn’t pressure me for more when I can’t physically. He’s nice because he asks me questions every day about how I’m doing on my feed and he adapts based on the vagaries of my body–the entirely unpredictable, constantly changing vagaries of my body.

Noah is generous and loving in a way I have never experienced from a single other person on this earth. I don’t even know what to do with that.

I’m trying to not fuck it up. I’m taking another drug in hopes that it will help me settle into the traces and be a good wife instead of a flailing fuck up.

Slow down my brain. Maybe then I can be good. Mask, hide, eliminate my impulses. Maybe then I can be good.

Stop talking, woman. That is what makes you good.

I’m so tired.

Short, medium, long-term goals. Right now I’m planning for kid college, paying off debt, sorta thinking about the next over seas trip and thinking about Alaska. Because hopefully I won’t fuck anything up if I think about the rewards I have coming.

Hopefully future me will thank me instead of hating me.

I have a lot of good. More good than I deserve. How can I not fuck it up?

Know your place

Where do you belong? With whom do you belong?

Noah is my anchor. What does that mean? That means his irritation affects me in an outsized way.

I’m feeling all over the place but I know I shouldn’t. I should feel calm. What is my place? Where do I belong?

Thanks, y’all, for doing the equivalent of a morning nod. Y’all acknowledge that I’m part of your world.

Where does Noah belong? In Texas? God forbid.

Where do we belong?

Who are we?


White supremacy says we are something. That’s shit. We’re nothing. But what does nothing mean?

It means I’m connected to you and you are connected to me and we are all better if we work together. I should probably not be the boss–I have personality issues.

Today I saw one of my beloved students post something that basically said we will be something even if those white pieces of shit try to beat us down. I’m sure not arguing with the sentiment.

Who am I in this dynamic, though?

Should I be shot? The only good white person is a dead white person?

I dinno.

I would be lying if I said I wanted nothing from you. I want your acknowledgment. I want you to look at me. I want to see me in your reflection.

I love you.

I sure wish I was worthy of you loving me. I know I am not and I despair.

I am unworthy.

I know.

That does not stop me from wanting, from looking, from waiting.

I yearn and quest and I stamp out the seeds of wanting. I want.

How that word taunts me. Wanting. I want wanting.

That thing it is you want. What is it? Does it exist? Is it ephemera? Is it real? Is it tangible?

I don’t know.

But I am.

Are you?

I love you guys (irony intended)

Lots of you aren’t guys. I hate when people use guys as a gender neutral word. But here we are.

I also say, “Awww man” constantly.

Being able to see y’all neatly laid out like this is humbling. I love you so much. It’s kind of funny. Each of you are people who have complicated stories in my head. I think about your mothers. I think about why I love you so much. I think about why I’m grateful that you will put up with my blathering.

Cause fuck, if you are still here? You must be dedicated. Or bored. And I know y’all ain’t got free time.

I’m struggling with my feelings. I feel rebellious and pent up again. I’ve worked so hard and for so long. My breaks are more frantic work. I’m tired and cranky and rebellious.

I want to go do things for the precise reason that I am not supposed to do them. That’s enough reason to want to do it right there.

The worst thing I did was going and buying a box of nitrous. Okay, two. Shut up.


Alcohol and nitrous both work to dull pain. I’m in a lot of pain. I’d seek out other distractions but the cost is so high I can’t pay.

I balance the varying costs of the things I try.

I also buy too much shit for Easter egg fillers. Cheers. This Easter egg hunt is going to be seriously fucking epic. I’ve had over two years to stockpile shit. Your kids could benefit. Or someone else’s kids. Or whatever.

I’ve spent my whole life looking for a place where I get to belong. A home. A place with awesome Easter egg hunts. For reasons beyond my ken Easter really is my thing. God I love the hunt.

There will be hundreds of eggs.

I’m looking for me. I’m looking for a safe place to hide me.

Where is my home?

Home is wherever I’m with you.

Boy I’ve never loved someone like you.

You are so beautiful.

Noah, I talked to the Quiet One and I have to tell you here before everyone or I’ll chicken out. It’s not like I talked about anything tawdry. I wanted to know how he was doing.

Anywhere beside you is the place that I’ll call home.

I’m tense and fussy.

It isn’t anyone’s fault. I know that Noah is bending over backwards and being accommodating and nice and helpful… the problem lies in me.

I’m just coming out of this long work cycle and I’m so tired. I’m so sick of working. I want to feel excited and exciting.

I want that feeling of, “Oh my god, come look at this it is magical” times 100 plus a tongue against my clit. And that doesn’t seem like a reasonable thing to ask for.

I want it all.

I want it all.

I want all of you.

I know you think I wasn’t that serious that night when I asked you to come to the bathroom with me. I would have used my tongue from top to bottom. I would have tried every method gentle or rough to help you have fun.

I did mean it.

I don’t think I will leave. But I feel like part of me will always want new and new and new and new and new.

Maybe that is life. Maybe this is the quiet desperation other people talk about. This longing. I want.

I want to be beaten and to hurt other people. I want to hunt.

I am such a piece of shit. The hunting is almost better than the having. I suck so very much.

I know I’m not supposed to want. But sometimes I feel like that wanting is part of what makes me who I am. This longing. My beloved daughter just knocked on the door so I don’t get to think about this anymore. I’m in the final minutes of Home.

Home is wherever I’m with you.

I love you.

What does belonging mean?

What does home mean?

I think I’m sick. I think that is why I’m shaking and coughing and producing mucus like a motherfucker.

I’m selfish and small.

I don’t know how to just be happy. I want to be happy. I feel like I mostly am. But I also want to break some god damn rules. Just to prove I can. I can do ANYTHING I WANT.

If only I knew what that was.


I’m pretty sure we have accounted for everyone I think of as a “regular” reader and a few people I didn’t expect. Thank you so much. Now when I do my paranoid check-in on stats I don’t see “PEOPLE CAME TO SEE YOUR SHIT” I see, “D checked three times and M checked twice and S stopped by and K looked in on you and”


That is so much happier for me. I love you all so very much. Thank you for the roll call.

Just a few missing….

Ok, the front page of my “most frequent IP hits” is now an address book of folks I know.


Otherwise I know the top few folks. I don’t know who the hell is in Las Vegas. Someone is checking in (only they haven’t left a comment…) from Michigan.

God I love the internet.

Pensacola Florida makes me think my cousins are watching. I have cousins in Pensacola. Is that you?

You are the only Mexico log in I see so far. I get a surprising number of hits from South Africa but they all go straight to the same “my father raped me” journal entry so I don’t think they are regular readers.

There’s a frequent Mountain View check in (is that L? I love you dear woman, if that is you) and a Berkeley who haven’t commented yet.

But I’m figuring out who is reading my journal and it makes my paranoid little heart feel so much better.

Thank you to the folks who have commented. I’ve pretty much seen all the folks I think of as my “regulars”. It’s so nice of y’all to check in like this. I am grateful you will let me ID you.

Ok, back to sleep. I have to go back to DMV in a few hours.

Could you do me a favor?

I’m trying to see something. Can you leave me a comment, please? I know y’all don’t like to talk back that much. You’re much more interested in silent stalking; I understand. But just this once, can I persuade you to leave a comment? Yes, you. I’m trying to do something. Please.

Almost to the end, tired, scattered

I don’t know what to do with myself. I kinda want to babble on Twitter but then I feel like an asshole. Just about everything I do makes me feel like an asshole.

The bathroom is… basically finished. Ok, I want to add one more hanging plant and about 8 pots in a plant stand that is partially filled and a piece of furniture will arrive on Tuesday. Then I can do the last organizing and I’m golden. Everything that belongs in the bathroom (except the piece of furniture I ordered yesterday and about 6 plants and 8 pots) are in the bathroom. This is huge. It’s been years.

The furniture I bought to go next to the bathtub has no particle board, blacksheep. It is metal and wood and I think it will need to live on little furniture pads so the bottoms don’t get wet/rusty.

The funny part is the middle shelf will probably be empty except when it is holding my computer for bathtub viewing. Ha. At least I think that is funny. But I’m weird about shelves.

I need to do a few more hours of sorting and organizing in here. Right now everything is… kinda dumped. It’s a process.

I need to fix the door frames. Not this week. Next week. Then I’m going to paint my bedroom and touch up the ceiling. Oh, and a few hours in the kitchen.

That’s the end of the remodel. SO CLOSE SO CLOSE SO CLOSE SO CLOSE.

I have this faux stained glass window stuff to put on the playroom window so I stop flashing my boobs at our neighbor when I walk through. That’ll just take a few minutes.

I want to organize all our paperwork and label the drawers that they are in.

I want to go through my deep freeze and figure out what the fuck we even have in there.

I want to finish tagging the books and cover every dot with book tape.

I want to work on the yard more. I’m not ready for Easter yet. I have so much work in front of me. Today I need to go clean up garbage from the yard because I think the construction company will be doing a final garbage pick up on Monday.

Today helpful assistant guy fixed the drip in the bathtub, the wonky plugs in the garage, and he’s taping/putting putty on the drywall/texturing the walls.

Oh. My. Goodness. So close. So close.

Not finishing this week entirely though. The bathroom is done! That’s something, right? At this point we could do the city inspection because the mold problem isn’t actually covered by this permit.

So much to do. I want to do absolutely nothing. I want to be the opposite of productive. I want to accomplish nothing.

I can’t remember the last time I accomplished nothing in a day. It sounds absolutely deliriously wonderful.

I need a vacation.



Hurry, hurry

This week might be the end of construction workers in my house. We’ll see. I’m hopeful. In the bathroom there are two towel bars left to hang, a piece or two of baseboard that have been cut perfectly and just need to be nailed to the wall, and then the whole damn bathroom needs to be sealed.

I think that’s one day of work left…

The we get to go in my bedroom and knock out the drywall and replace it with new drywall and insulation. Because my bedroom has mold problems from the lack of insulation. Fixing the stucco will help… but the lack of insulation is always going to create a pocket of wet over there. We have to fix it. I don’t know why the other two remaining uninsulated walls don’t mold in the same way but they don’t.

Then we pick up garbage from the yard. Then we are done.

Except for all the painting I haven’t completely finished yet. I’m really far!

I need to touch up the ceiling in the hallway. I need to touch up the green through the house. I need to fix the flower on the hallway mural. I need to repaint my bedroom. I have a day or two of painting left in the kitchen. I need to paint all the door frames and doors.

That’s the end of the list, I think? The door frames are going to be proscenium arches and every door will lead you somewhere different. I’m looking forward to that part. Each door will probably be a day of painting. I’d like to paint five doors.

I think I have a solid 10 days of painting left. I don’t mind doing that after the guys leave.

Hurry hurry hurry… almost done.

My main assistant/lead guy is gone now. Yesterday was his last day. So I had him sign the wall and I slipped him a large cash bonus. Thank you for all of your hard, dedicated work. Your attention to detail is going to be making me happy for years to come. I’m so grateful I got to work with you. The assistant who is left is a very can-do sort of guy. This will be a good few days.


Almost done, almost done, almost done.

Then I’m going to collapse and not do much for a few months. Oh god.

I have all the stuff to donate in the back of the van. I think I will have that emptied out on Tuesday. Also on Tuesday I plan to go to Ikea for the few remaining things I need (a cabinet for right next to the bathtub so I can put bathing supplies within reach, hopefully more of the plastic drawers) and then I’m down to collecting plants.


I will have plants in my bathroom. I’m so excited. I want the air purification, desperately. I think it’ll help.

Ok, so lets call it three more weeks of work for me. But a semi-relaxed three weeks. It doesn’t have to be 12 hour work days or anything.

And I’m already sneaking outside to weed and garden. This year will be glorious.

Ok, time to get dressed and get started on today. Lots to do. Only a little ways to go. I can do this.

Almost done.