Category Archives: adult-only

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Judgmental asshole.

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(I’m talking about me in the title.)

This morning I woke up to Pinterest, like I do. I was looking through homeschooling links, like I do.

I am a judgmental asshole. I really am. What am I being judgmental about this morning? Well, we have bought into school culture in some really pretty funny ways.

Uhm, you don’t have to go buy a bunch of expensive Montessori approved supplies in order for your child to learn to read. It’s not required. Seriously. I wish that people did not talk about learning to read as if it was this crazy esoteric skill that requires tons of props. Uhm, it requires books. Paper is helpful for scribbling, yes. But you don’t have to go out and buy fifteen different kind of letter shape things for your kid to practice tracing with their fingers in order to learn to read.

Oh man.

I get that these moms mean well. I’m certainly not saying anything to them about it. I just closed the tab.

I understand why these mothers feel insecure but I think it is a trap. I think that believing that we must create a “school” type environment at home is part of the way that we limit real learning.

Real learning is not about sitting down with Montessori Brand Toys.

My kids learn to read from street signs and posters up on the wall out in public. We talk about the letters and the sounds all the time. We don’t need to buy special stuff.

I worry about creating a structure where learning has to be done sequentially in an order someone else approves of. That is not how I learned.

I was thinking about it this morning. Why am I so completely hateful of school and the whole school system? (I’m not attacking my many friends who use the school system. I swear I am not. There are lots of good reasons for participating in school systems. I recognize all of them as valid and good and worthy. I don’t think anyone I know is to blame for the school system. I really and truly don’t.)

I went to 25 schools, including 5 high schools. If you figure I met at least 200 people at each high school and more than a hundred people at each elementary school (I’m really good at meeting people) that means I met many thousands of people.

I went from teacher to teacher and I saw that there were these boring steps that everyone had to plod through even though most people in the room caught on in less time than was spent. There was always one or two people struggling so the whole class had to wait. And wait. And wait.

Learning is an organic process that happens at wildly different speeds for different people. Some people like to trace a lot of letters. Sometimes my kids go in the back yard and practice tracing letters using sticks on dirt. It’s something I have seen them spontaneously do.

I don’t force my kids to sit down and do tracing work. I think it is beside the point of learning. And I think there is overwhelming evidence on the side that pushing kids hard towards academics before they are seven is overall somewhat harmful in their full life of learning. A lot of people who are forced to do stuff early burn out. They weren’t ready and it wasn’t fun so they learn to hate “school”.

I feel that bopping in and out of schools so fast is part of why I like learning. I had to do it independently. I learned to read because I was hungry for the knowledge and companionship of books. I went from not reading to reading adult books in less than two years.

I am also very raw today because I read 2.5 books about suicide yesterday. Lots of feelings swirling around in my body.

Affiliations. Succorance. Those are the needs in me that create the gaping, yawning maw that threatens to eat me alive. Those are the human needs that have been my problem my whole life.

So I went to these schools and I met many thousands of people. Mostly what I learned from the school experience is that I am bad because I do not fall into line and do exactly what other people do. But I was never trained in one school for many years so that I could learn a culture. I was always wrong. Let me tell you, teachers at Lakeside in Los Gatos had different expectations than they did in Dennison Texas. (I can’t even remember the name of the school. I could look it up. I don’t care that much.)

I learned over and over that I don’t know how to make real friends who will be part of my life. I will always be a freak. And I will always Do Everything Wrong. I never make a picture that looks exactly like every other picture in the room. Mine is always different and thus it is wrong.

I can’t buy my kids a bunch of Branded School Supplies and tell them that there is the One True Way To Learn.

I can’t do it.

I don’t trust systems. Systems have hurt me so very badly. Systems have shown me how little *I* matter.

So when I read things written by very well intentioned, loving people… I have strong feelings of oh my god no.

I don’t think other people are bad for following a system that more or less worked for them. I really don’t.

I am an auto-didact. I teach myself. Thus I also teach my children to be. There are a lot of things in this world that are worthy of learning about. I don’t know what will interest you. But I will talk to you extensively about how to go about acquiring information you want to have. I won’t dictate what information you need or how you get it.

I won’t put a bunch of tracing things in front of you and say now it is time for you to trace. I can’t do that.

I’m not even sure if it is really because I am a judgmental asshole (but I am) or if it is just my horror of forcing my children into rote learning.

I don’t decide it is time for them to learn how to trace. That’s not my job. Sometimes at stores Shanna will browse through books and ask for workbooks. I’ve bought her a couple. She has chosen to sit down with them a few times and trace. I’ve never handed it to her or initiated her working with it and I don’t think I ever will.

I don’t do that. That is not my role here.

I don’t think other people are bad. But I think they waste a lot of their own time trying to do things “right” when there is no such thing as right.

I feel sad that I still feel like I am doing everything wrong. Clearly my kids are on the road to reading. But I can’t force them through an Approved Process Of Learning.

I just can’t.

I won’t.

What I learned from the school system is that the system itself is much more important than any individual child within it. No one cares about all the little individual people who may need help or attention or support. That’s not what the system does. The system says, “I’m a system and I run. If you have a problem it is your problem.”

I’m glad that my friends who put their kids in traditional school are the kind of people who pay attention to their kids and their kids won’t fall through the cracks. My friends’ children are not the kids who are going to suffer the most. My friends’ kids are already pretty privileged and supported.

If you have good parents who love you it really doesn’t matter where you spend your days. You’ll learn and you’ll get the support you need. I didn’t have good parents.

It isn’t fair to blame the system because of its failure to save children like me. But I do think it is fair because one of the reasons the school system exists is supposedly to help kids like me. Oh well.

I think that any system designed to apply to multiple millions of people at the same time is going to fail more than half of the people involved at any given moment.

Half of all people are below average. Half of all people are above average. How in the fuck are you going to design one system that will serve both sides of that equation? Especially since we are all anti-tracking now. Everyone gets the SAME THING BECAUSE YOU ARE ALL ALIKE, RIGHT?!

Do you know why my kids will learn to read and write? Because they see their parents obsessively doing both. They know that the way to access pretty much the whole world and all of the things they want to do involves reading and writing.

I don’t think I will have to coax them or go through an elaborate many year process of forcing them to trace letters long before their brains are ready to read. Give me a break.

I like having a blog.

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After a while I start feeling guilty if I post too much on social media. I’m allowed to post random drips and drabs (or novellas) in my blog whenever I want to. I’m on my third suicide book of the day. This morning’s chapter in Outrunning was about trying to find a therapist. All cheer all the time here in Wonderland.

I’m struggling with the tunnel thinking. I am glad I started out the day with a good clinical book and went on to a bad lay book and I’m on a decent lay book now.

This second lay book covers most of the same material as the first lay book but instead of long chapters with annoying and patronizing step by step instructions about what you HAVE TO DO IF YOU DON’T WANT TO DIE she is writing short little stories. It tells the same message without being annoying and obnoxious.

I really like the second book (third of the day). She has a website so I sent her an email. I’m glad she is out there in the world writing.

Sometimes being alive hurts so much.

I have a lot of empathy for how this woman talks extensively about not having much of a support network and how much she struggles with asking for help. She knows that she is always on the verge of overwhelming her tenuous support network so she has to very carefully only ask for help at the most important times.

I know that balance very well. If you ask for too much then people stop wanting to know you. It’s hard.

I am glad that I didn’t die when I was fifteen. If what happened to me up until I was fifteen was my entire life story that would be very sad indeed. The seventeen years since I overdosed have certainly been better than the first fifteen years.

It is hard knowing that my perceptions are broken and I need to ignore how my brain perceives the world. I’m stuck on hurting. I don’t actually hurt much any more. I mean, I do. But I don’t have ongoing wounds. I am not being retraumatized over and over anymore.

I still have relationship issues and blow ups and such. But next month I will be seven years post-rape. That’s a long time. Sure, I have managed this shift mostly by hiding in my house but it still counts.

It still counts.

Only two to go…

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#47: A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Reptile Room by Lemony Snicket

#48: The Suicidal Mind by Edwin S. Shneidman – this is one of the best books on the topic of suicide I have ever read.

ETA #49: How I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying To Kill Me by Susan Rose Blauner – ok, truthfully I didn’t read every page of this book. It is full of a lot of annoying lists and charts. By 2/3 of the way through the book I kind of hated her guts. I feel guilty for having such a strong reaction.

I think my strong negative reaction is in large part a class reaction. This is an upper middle class girl who had a terrible thing happen (her mother died when she was young) and she otherwise had a supportive loving life. She’s just very suicidal. I feel patronized, condescended to, and angry. I don’t think it is her fault I feel this way. I think her book is probably a good one as a first introduction to suicide by other people who have had lives similar to her.

If you are poor or have been poor for most of your life don’t read this book.

#50: When Darkness Comes: Saying “No” to Suicide by Angerona S. Love – this one is fabulous. I really like this writer. Everything about this book was well done.

Yeah, sick.

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You know how I thought I was getting sick? Yes. Lots of puking. Other uhm things came out of me. When other uhm things come out of me at such a rate and speed that it kind of freaks me out that’s not so healthy. And I started bleeding this morning. fuck my life.

But the better news is that after crying all night last night I spent the morning reading a book about the suicidal mind, saw some things that were seriously educational about my specific issues, then I went on to have a good day.

My family is very nice to me. I am so grateful that I am treated well at this point in my life. I struggle to be worthy of it.

Yesterday evening I was still feeling kind of sad. I turned on music. My whole family danced and laughed and was silly together. It was so much fun.

I get to belong here. I’m allowed to be here. Forever. I didn’t think I would ever have that. I thought that belonging was something other people got to have.

start of a bad cycle?

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I have so much anxiety right now that I am shaking and not sleeping. I got less than five hours tonight and I am so full of adrenaline there is no chance I will sleep again.

I deleted everything off my fetlife profile. Most of my experience there involves me having an unusual opinion and then a bunch of people jump on me and talk about how icki I am. I participate in casual sex conversations. Apparently women like me, who will have sex with strangers (err, at least I used to) are disgusting, stupid, and we are obviously not worth keeping around. We have no self-esteem and we denigrate the women around us just by existing.

I get less shit for my promiscuity from Christians than I do from “perverts”. At least the Christians act like, “Well duh you like sex.” The perverts talk about how there is something wrong with me for not wanting a deep emotional connection with everyone I fuck.

Does anyone else see this as odd?

I don’t think that is why I am up though. I feel horrible guilt for canceling on the mural. I’m really not functional enough. I have a job. I’m supposed to be homeschooling my kids. I haven’t paid much attention to them recently. I mean, I pay attention to them… but not to the degree I *should* as a home schooling parent. Right now I expect them to just entertain themselves all day while I do work. I’ve been doing this for months. This isn’t a long-term solution.

I feel like I am trying to do so many things that I’m not getting anything done.

And I feel left out because I don’t have the spoons to go do the fun social things my friends do. I really can’t handle it on a lot of levels. I will probably never work Dickens Fair again because I don’t want to run into my rapists.

I’m not sure why I feel so isolated, unimportant, and worthless right now. I have wanted to cut for a few days. It has been really hard to not do it. I haven’t which is supposed to be all that counts. But I want to. I trace designs on my flesh with a non-threatening finger.

I miss people but I am so tired and worn out that I really can’t handle being around anyone. I feel brittle, tired, and snappish. I’m not saying it is anyone else’s fault. It just is.

I hate when I do this. I want to be around people so much it physically hurts. But I know I can’t behave well enough to pull it off. If I spend time around people when I feel like this then I do stuff I know I shouldn’t do and I lose relationships.

Better to hide until I am less of a cunt.

I hate when I get into this place of feeling desperately lonely while seeing people. I am overscheduled with people I have to “behave” very carefully around.

I feel guilty because the easiest things to cancel on are things for the kids. I can skip their friends more easily than I can skip my long list of chores.

I feel lonely and mean at the same time. This isn’t a good combination. I feel angry in a way that is hard to pretend isn’t there. I’m not even sure what I’m angry about. I just feel really angry. So angry that I could probably punch dozens of holes in a wall without noticing the knuckle damage.

I’m sitting very still and not doing anything terrible.

I wonder how long this will go on this time. I hate this feeling. Tonight I could beat my head on concrete for a long time.

I think a lot about impulses. I think a lot about compulsive behavior. I think a lot about choices and emotions.

I don’t seem to be able to control my emotions. I am controlling my behavior by being quiet and still. But that is of limited duration. I’m sure I will come up with more work to do.

Noah is writing another book. And going back and forth on what he wants to do after some work issues. I have feelings about both set of circumstances but it is what it is. I don’t think that is why I’m freaking out. I may be feeling some increased anxiety because job stuff is kind of uncertain but he always lands on his feet. And I have almost five months of income in cash in the bank. We will be ok. (Which blows my mind considering how much money he makes.)

I know I’m worried about money in the “I feel existential angst for being a terrible person and spending money on anything other than rent, rice and beans” sort of way. I’m not actually worried.

I opened an IRA in my name and fully funded it for the year. (The limit is only $5500.00… so not that extreme.) I’m going to start having this as an auto-deposit thing.

No one will help when I am old. I will have what Noah and I have managed to save. I should take that more seriously and pay myself first. Making sure I don’t end up homeless when I’m old should be a serious priority. I’ve already been homeless. I don’t really want to be ever again.

I feel scared and dirty and bad.

I feel like I can’t do anything right. I can’t do anything worth doing. I can’t…

I don’t even know. I have been feeling a weird balance between feeling happy and feeling scared that it is all going away soon.

I am really upset with myself for saying yes to the mural and then saying no. That feels like a really horrible thing to do. I am bad. I should have said no from the beginning or I am stuck with having said yes.

It’s kind of like how I never thought I had the right to say ‘no’ to sex once I had a meal with someone.

Buy me a grilled cheese sandwich and a milkshake and that gets you a blowjob. I don’t even have the self-esteem to be high priced.

Which makes things complicated with Noah. A friend told me I should consider paying myself as a housewife.

I don’t deserve to be paid. These days I’m not even a good whore. I haven’t had sex ten times in the past two months and some put together let alone hitting quota each month.

I feel tired and sad and I hurt. I keep moving in and out of feeling sick. I’ve had terrible nausea for days. My throat hurts, well not my throat. My neck. The corded muscles that are kind of on the sides of the front.

Just over 2,000 words and I will hit 30,000 words on the book. I’m honestly running out of things I would want to say to twelve year olds. I’m also feeling like, “No one will let their kids read this thing anyway. Why am I wasting my time?”

I feel so bad that I needed this book terribly when I was twelve years old and I’m not sure it will be of any worth to anyone else. I don’t think other people need the same lessons I need. Not everyone is a worthless whore.

I feel so broken and disgusting. People like me shouldn’t be allowed to spread their disgusting point of view.

I’m not quite to suicidal but if this continues I will get there. That is where this is heading. I can more or less see the pattern.

Being suicidal is just a thought process. It is how a brain deals with feeling over loaded and unable to function through pain. Suicidal isn’t a “feeling”. I’m feeling sad and lonely and unimportant and expendable. Those are feelings. Suicidal isn’t a feeling. It’s a thought process. It is how my brain has learned to handle feeling all these feelings.

I don’t want to kill myself. I have these kids to raise. I really like them. I’m not at a dangerous spot.

I’m just struggling with how my brain works.

I need to not schedule anything until after the end of the year. Hell, it’s the holiday season. Maybe I’m just going bananas in that typical end of year SAD hell that so many people live with. Maybe I’m just missing my mom. I really miss my mom. Every year that goes by hurts more.

Why didn’t my mommy love me?

I can see my kids through my pain. I can make their needs more important than mine. My mother couldn’t do the same thing. She couldn’t do anything more than survive. She had no spoons left to give to helping me.

I have no spoons left to help other people right now. Do I have any right to throw stones?

I watched some really heavy TED talks today yesterday. Specifically Indian women talking about rape. Stories about three year old children raped until their intestine fall out of their bodies.

Ok, I don’t win the oppression olympics.

The woman who told that story was gang raped by eight men and used that as a reason to devote her entire life to helping victims of trafficking.

I am not that cool. I haven’t used my personal tragedies to help other people in a large and measurable way. I am small, selfish, and not very useful.

I wanted children too much. I think that engaging in that kind of work means you give up on a family of your own. You can’t take care of your own kids and devote your life to helping people. In the process you neglect your own kids.

I don’t want to neglect my kids.

I know a number of people who have devoted their lives to helping professions. I know therapists and emergency responders and… lots of professions. Lots of people. I know a lot of people.

I don’t feel like I deserve to know the good people I know. I am not as good as them. Sure, I taught high school for three years. It wasn’t even three years. It was 2.5 years because of my copious vomiting all day long. Because I was too incompetent to do anything while I gestated.

I hope that this round of self-pity doesn’t last long. I’m really tired of this shit.

After canceling on painting I have a couple of days where I can stay home. I am just about to the point where I don’t have house chores left. I need to clean off the tops of the bookshelves in the living room and shift things so the plumbing can be fixed on Thursday. I am thinking about asking Noah and Uncle C to help me Wednesday night.

My back hurts all the time. I have periodic spasms where I lie on the floor and breathe until I can move around again.

I’m just not being nice to my body. I’m acting like working a manual labor job is necessary for basic survival and that’s just not true at this stage of my life. It is self-hating.

I don’t know how to feel less pain. I add stress until I crack. I’m not good at doing anything else. This isn’t a healthy balance.

No painting this month or next. The paint will get put away. Maybe in the spring. Maybe in the summer.

Maybe more West Wing. Hiding from life sounds great.

second thoughts.

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I’m already freaking out about the painting project I am in the process of beginning. I’m not sure I want to do it.

I was originally asked to do a painting on a gate. Ok. Now she wants me to do both sides of the gate and a second gate that has yet to be built. And she wants me to do it all for $300.

Uhm. If I’m doing four murals (even if it is only a total of 12′ wide) that are all supposed to be separate seasons in different forests… that’s complicated art. Not to mention that I emailed and asked her to pick a season because that decides what colors of paint I should buy. She responded that I should paint all four seasons.

But the $300 she is paying me is also supposed to cover paint.

I’m starting to feel like this is not a reasonable project.

I can’t buy paint (I’m running low on vibrant exterior paint… for some reason…) and do four murals on $300. Well… I could. If I was doing it for my house and it was a labor of love.

I feel like I am being asked to put my heart into a gate someone is putting up in the apartment complex they will probably only live in for a few years.

I’m not sure I have the spoons to spare for this. I am already so frazzled in general that I am alternating between crying, shaking, and sitting like a zombie on the couch. (I cry or shake while I work.)

I outsourced painting my god damn arbor because I am so dizzy all the time I was afraid I would fall off the ladder.

I think this is a stupid plan right now. I am drowning. I am not managing my body.

I emailed her and cancelled. I can’t spend 25+ hours at her house this week painting. I will be angry and hateful and nasty and by the end of this affair I will hate her guts. That seems pretty stupid to do on purpose.

I hate my incompetence. I hate my weakness. But I don’t see how it will improve my life to force myself to go do this work when I will spend the time gritting my teeth and cursing about how much I hate her guts for asking me to do it in the first place.

She didn’t do anything wrong by asking. I just can’t say yes.

Things I can’t say.

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1. I still wake up in the morning and grieve because I am not the kind of person you wanted.

2. I miss you more with every day. This is really hard.

3. No, actually I can’t call. I know it would be “ok” with you but I can’t. I am broken in this way. I just can’t do it. I don’t see you. That puts up a barrier. I can’t cross it. I’m sorry.

4. I wish things had turned out differently. I think it could have been better.

5. Sometimes I wish I could drive to your house. I wonder if you would let me in or scream at me.

6. I don’t know you and I will never know you. I’m trying as hard as I can not to think judgmental thoughts about you. You are making very different choices than me. Choices that make you more appealing than I am to people I like very much. It is hard to not feel jealous of you.

7. Sometimes I wish I could use a sewing needle to suture your mouth shut.

8. Maybe people aren’t mean to you because they are all inherently mean people. Maybe people are mean to you because you are a tremendous douchebag.

9. There is not a thing in your life that I want. Not a decision I would duplicate. I still wish that I could be you. I wish that I understood why you want what you want. I wish I understood the mental processes that lead you to make the decisions you make. I want to be you. I don’t want to be like you.

10. When I look at you I feel sad. I know we will never be close and I wish we could be. I admire you so much. I am sorry that I am such a piece of shit.

Why I am so out.

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Yesterday in the course of my daily life I was talking with a guy. Someone I don’t really know. I’ve seen him before but we certainly aren’t “friends”. We were chit chatting and, like it does, the topic gets around to families.

It made sense in context for me to say, “I’m really glad my father is dead so that I don’t have to deal with him.” He asked how my father died. I said he died rather than go to prison for raping me.

The guy got quiet then looked at me. His face kinda crumbled and he said, “My dad did that to me too.”

We didn’t get real in detail or anything. We didn’t trade full stories. But I gave him my phone number and I told him to call me in the middle of the night or any other time if he needs to talk about what has happened to him. People like us need support and it is very hard to find. Not everyone is even capable of supporting us.

He said he has never talked to anyone but God about it. He looked so sad. I said, “As a boy I’m not surprised. There aren’t many resources for girls and it is a lot harder on boys. It’s not like anyone follows little boys around checking up on them and keeping them safe. You don’t deserve any of what happened to you and I’m really sorry it happened.”

He nodded. He took my number. I’m going to try and get to know him more.

Sometimes I worry about my desire to go find ALL THE INCEST SURVIVORS. I worry that some day my children will be raped by someone I have brought into their lives. Statistically speaking that is how it works. I watch my kids like fucking hawks. They don’t get a lot of alone time with anyone but me or Noah or the Godmamas. The Godmamas have earned my trust. So has Noah.

I worry because I know that a great many people who are rapists do so because they were trained and they don’t “mean it”. I know that and have compassion for that on a deeper level than most people. I truly have compassion for being a predator.

But my kids aren’t prey.

I feel like I am walking a razor thin line. I want to be of use and helpful to people like me. But first and most importantly I need to make sure my kids don’t end up like me.

But I will keep being out. And I will keep handing my phone number out. I’m very serious about the middle of the night calls being ok. If you can’t tell anyone else in the world about being raped because you are too afraid, you can tell me. I swear to a God I don’t believe in that I will not judge you or put you down or say that you deserved it in any way.

I might help you see how some of your behaviors bring shitty people into your life. But it isn’t your fault they are shitty people and it isn’t your fault shitty people do shitty things. Sometimes you still need to pick a different street corner to stand on even if nothing in the world is your fault. If you want to live you have to adapt.

I will keep randomly volunteering that my father raped me. It will make some people uncomfortable and they won’t want to be around me. Ok. It will make a lot of other people understand that I am safe for them. I care a lot more about that.

Also, I apologized to my neighbor for yelling at him about the racist stuff. I’ve been feeling guilty and to me that means I need to do something. He laughed when I apologized. I don’t think he’s worried about my freak outs. He seems to enjoy our company a lot.

Maybe by the time you are in your late 70’s and you spend most of your time just waiting around to die you don’t take it personally when other people have feelings. You can wait out those silly storms. Having weird company is better than just being alone all the time.

If you want to change peoples hearts it is probably best to try a tactic other than screaming at them.

I think I’m sick.

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This is predictable and suboptimal. My neck is really stiff and sore and I feel really dizzy and nauseous. I don’t know if I will actually vomit or not. So far I have stayed pretty still hoping to avoid it.

But we have to get dressed. Folks will be doing work. I did not do all of my tasks for yesterday and I don’t know that I will finish them today. I hit a wall.

Sometimes I think my body hurts as much as it does just because this is the only way I notice that I have one other than feeling impatient with my limitations.

I had brief hopes of a weekend without kids. Again not so much. My kids sure require a lot of energy from me. I’m tired. It’ll be fine. They can play. If I get desperate I am a luxurious rich person and we have an iPad.

Every day I stop and feel gratitude for all of the people who put time and energy and effort into creating the technology I use. The computers, phones, stoves, washing machines, and cars. I have so much ease in my life because of the labor of thousands of people.

Even though I am afraid that I’m being short tempered and snippy (my kids nod that I’m being snippy) I feel really lucky right now. (I apologize for snapping pretty frequently and I try again. I just suck at voice control right now.)

It will be ok.

It will all be ok.

yay morning

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I’m not usually one to sit and look through pictures on iPhoto. I did this morning. Holy moly my kids are changing fast.

I’m in progress on doing another mural. That should be next week. I sent off a huge list of questions today. I’m excited about this art thing picking up. I would not have expected my life to go in this direction.

I feel overwhelmed with blessings and good things. I have so many things I want to do. And now I have a wonderful girl on my lap and typing is hard.

Think about what you have.

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I am happy. I have done a lot of work lately. I feel like I am in a good spot. Without hiring a large and vigorous staff it would be hard for me to get more done. I feel really good in my house. I feel like I have space for all of the things I want to own. I feel like I have space for playing and doing art and entertaining.

I have a husband who is so nice to me that my friends brag about him. I’m told. She says she tells younger women, “Marry a man who can cook. My friend’s husband makes her breakfast every morning then goes to work all day and comes home to make dinner.” Yup. I won the husband lottery. How this happened escapes me. But I did. He makes me food. Lots of food. I feel soooooooooooo lucky about this bit.

I hate making food a lot of the time. I really do hate it. Having to put together a meal that is more complicated than boiling ramen noodles can frequently reduce me to tears. I know this is lame and pathetic and all that. Whatever. The fact that Noah will cook for me is really huge.

I feel very happy about the colors I can see out my back window.

I feel like my life is plugging along. I’m doing things and going places and trying new experiences.

I’m so lucky.

The book is just about half done. Ok, it’s not half done. I’m almost halfway through the required number of words for NaNoWriMo. I’m 150 words away from halfway which is convenient because tomorrow is the halfway point of the month.

I hope to hell that I am not going to offend my friends. I think the book is solid. One of the things that is hard about writing this book is that it feels so obvious to me from the point of view I have now. I can’t imagine which parts will be revolutionary for other people. I’m pretty sure I will shock the shit out of people though. I have been me and I have been researching this stuff so long and so carefully that I can’t imagine people not knowing all that I’m saying. I’m scared I’m wasting peoples time. I don’t think I am though.

It is hard to feel confident that I am doing something worth doing. It’s just a month of effort. If it sucks, no big deal–right?

ugh.

I’m starting another mural. I asked for $8/hour and for her to cover my paint. That seems fair. I sure as heck don’t think I’m worth $20/hour. Not yet. Maybe some day.

The arbor will be painted today. Not by me. Because I am painting a mural for someone else I am rolling that money into paying someone to paint my arbor. I have been really dizzy lately. I am honestly afraid of trying to paint something 12′ off the ground right now. I’m pretty sure I would fall. It feels humiliating to say that but it’s true.

More and more birds are hanging out in my yard. They still haven’t found my bird feeder, which kind of irritates me. Oh well. I don’t feel that irritated. I am considering moving the bird feeder.

Today should be mellow and easy. I will clean the bathroom because it is nasty. I hope to vacuum and sweep and mop. I will fold five loads of laundry. It’s a light day. Ha.

I have three people who love me and love me and love me. I am very lucky.

Moments in parenting.

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My three year old was wandering around talking to herself. When I leaned in to hear what she was saying I heard, “Most girls have vulvas, but not all. Most boys have penises, but not all. Some girls have a penis, but not many. Some boys have a vulva, but not many.”

I started having heart convulsions. What if she does that at the park?! Are the Christians going to freak?!

Oh man.

I don’t know. But I’m going to keep telling her the truth as I know it. The fullest truth that will not harm her.

Most girls have vulvas, but not all. Most boys have penises, but not all. Some girls have a penis, but not many. Some boys have a vulva, but not many.

It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

parsing out blessings

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I am an extremely lucky person. I know people who are willing to schlep to my house to see me. I know people who thoughtfully invite themselves over. I appreciate this a lot. I know so many of them that I have something booked for just about every day all the way through the end of the year. We have ten unscheduled days between now and Christmas.

What do I want to have done and by when? What should I do today?

fyi: if you have never sent me an email I will probably not invite you to parties. It isn’t about rejecting you. It is that I sit down with my address book and I invite who I know. Just sayin’.

Already wrote a lot this morning. Tired arms. The day is about to begin. I predict it will be a long one. Tomorrow I have kids coming over. I want to have a lot of the mess cleaned up before they arrive. Oh goodness. The washing machine is being repaired today. I can almost start that backlog of work.

I have so many things I want to do. I am lucky.

just to say…

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It occurs to me that even though I’m feeling overwhelmed I am feeling overwhelmed because there are so many good things in my life and I’m having trouble finding balance between all of the fabulous opportunities that have fallen into my life.

I really shouldn’t be complaining. Even though I need to work on balance.

Today I made more progress on my second book. That feels pretty cool. I will walk to the farmers market this morning with my two wonderful daughters and we will purchase food that tastes good and contributes to our health. I will get to go see friends and spend time with people I love and respect.

I really shouldn’t be complaining. My life is so blessed.

busier than a one legged man in a butt kicking contest

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I am tracking too many projects at once. I feel like my head is about to explode. I do this to myself.

I am considering taking advantage of being a rich person and hiring someone to do a bunch of the tasks on my to do list because I spend a lot of time crying because I can only force my body through so many hours of physical labor in a day before I turn into a nasty bitch who screams a lot. I’m tired. I hurt everywhere. Could I keep doing all of my own work, sure. I could. If it was mandatory I could keep going like this forever. But I wouldn’t be nice.

I admire people who can deal with a lot of work and stay nice. I’m not one of them and I feel so ashamed of myself. Maybe it would be ok if someone else painted the arbor and sealed my garage door. Maybe.

I keep feeling enormous guilt because I know I am not focusing on the kids much lately. They get very little “attention” in the ways they are used to getting attention. I’m there with them. We are in the room talking, but I don’t do much of anything that is just for them right now. I haven’t been reading much. I don’t play games because I am tired, grumpy, and my body hurts. I’m not in the fucking mood to play. Play sounds horrible and like I want to hide in the closet.

This isn’t good. When am I going to learn balance? What is a sustainable work load for me?

I don’t know but I’m attaching all of my bookshelves to the walls for probably the first time in my life. (I do it partially so P can stop giving me a loving-hard-time when she comes over. She cares about our safety and she’s right so I should just listen to her.) But you see, I don’t attach bookshelves to the walls because I move furniture a lot. I used to just move house quickly and since I’ve been living with Noah I have completely changed the living room furniture around at least once a year since we have been married. (Err, not buying things–just moving around what I own.)

Now I won’t have alternative placements. I’m at max capacity because I bought more furniture. So I’m attaching to the wall.

I am kind of hoping that if I can no longer spend so much time rearranging furniture that I will move on to doing more kid-centric activities. Err, we’ll see.

Someone asked me to come to her house and paint a gate for money. An art commission for money is blowing my mind. Is this really my life? She won’t pay me a lot and it’s not like I need an extra painting project right now. But that feels like a huge step and I’m not going to turn it down. I will just pass on one of my own painting projects. Ha. Lame.

It isn’t lame though. I would use water based paint and a professional will use oil based paint. Water based paint only lasts about six years. Oil lasts closer to twenty. Maybe hiring a professional isn’t lazy it is smart. (I could use oil but it is more flammable and picky and fussy and… I’m used to water based paint. It makes a huge difference.)

Note to self: be done with “home improvement” shit by Calli’s next birthday. By the time she turns four Shanna will already be six and I have to stop working on the house all the time. I have to finish my interior painting projects. I need to stop having the house take up so much of my time and attention. I treat this like my job and it isn’t my job.

My job is home educating my kids. On one hand: Shanna is getting good at putting together furniture and figuring out how to do things. On the other hand: we could do something more fun once in a while too.

Stop with all the house-shit, Krissy. It’s an addiction, too.

(My house is getting much closer to being what I see in my head. I’m very happy about it. Probably in January-February I will repaint the kitchen. You’ll see. It’s going to be fucking awesome. Vines. Flowers. Yay!)

 

I am so proud of me.

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Noah and I got into a huge argument last night about obesity. The person we were arguing with started out with “Obesity is the problem” and by the end apologized for his fat shaming. In between was an hour and a half of passionate back and forth with no name calling or raised voices.

I love arguing with Noah. He’s good at pinning people down and forcing them to fully explicate the random shit they are spewing. “No no no, you don’t get to get away with being vague. When you say “the problem” what exactly do you mean?”

He tried to transition into “Obesity is a symptom of the problem and we need to get rid of it.” No no no. That’s not ok either.

Either it is ok for people to exist in whatever body they exist in or it isn’t. Would it make their lives perhaps easier if they were thinner? Maybe. But that still doesn’t make them a problem and fuck you for saying so. (I never once said fuck you to him. I was really good.) How are they a problem? Because they cost money? So do skinny people.

He even tried to tell me that “It’s a bunch of bullshit that being fat doesn’t cause health problems.” When I almost levitated off my chair in anger he barely blinked. This is a man who is used to arguing.

It was a long argument. At one point he said something about how this isn’t an argument anyone could win. Noah countered with the fact that he (the guy we were arguing with) wasn’t going to win this argument but I (Krissy) already have won because my goal was to change the opinions of people who fat shame.

Bodies are ok. Whatever they look like. Period.