Category Archives: adult-only

Published in the adult-only category

Family

Dealing with Noah’s family is complicated. I am not that inclined to shut my mouth and put up with awful because… I get no positive out of knowing them. I mean, his parents send money and his aunts send boxes of candy around holidays. If these windfalls evaporated from my life I wouldn’t miss them. I don’t plan for the money. I feel awkward about accepting it. I accept it because they are Noah’s family and they have the right to give him things.

I don’t care. If I never heard from any of them again I would be just fine. They are not integral to my sense of self. They aren’t my family. Why should I make myself smaller in order to make them feel like they are correct?

Nope.

I have nothing to gain by keeping my mouth shut and letting the status quo continue. The status quo is not a good place for me.

Silence in the face of atrocity is how I ended up with the horrifying childhood I had. I’m never going to be silent again. Even if it offends the shit out of everyone. Even if I never get another box of candy.

Right now I’m watching a movie about Grace of Monaco. It is fascinating watching Nicole Kidman pretend to learn the history of the country so she can take on the role of princess. I can see why she learns what she learns for the sake of her children.

My children don’t need me to learn how to be a serene highness. Thank G-d.

But I need to consciously try to facilitate them having relationships with these racist fuckers. Why? Because they are family. I’m not part of the family. Not really. I am a facilitator. I am an extension. I am Shanna and Calli and Noah’s family. I am not Aunt Cookie’s family. I am not Aunt Candy’s family. I’m the mother of their great-nieces which isn’t the same as family. I’m unavoidable but I am not likable.

So I drive the kids around the country. And I take dictation as they write letters to these people. I will help them make phone calls when they get just a bit older. And the whole damn time I will be arguing with the messages they receive.

No, your family is not superior to other people. The relatives who tell you that you are better are lying. You are just a person. A wonderful person, but just a person. You need to earn your own merit. It is not automatic based on your appearance.

We had an interesting conversation yesterday. The Godmamas came up again. In reference to some people are ok with mellow yellow and some people really aren’t. Shanna made a comment to the effect that we are better people if we are more worried about the drought than the cleanliness of our toilet.

I told her that the two have no relationship whatsoever and she is very wrong if she believes that one measure like that decides what makes a good person. I am *not* a better person than your Godmamas. Well, they aren’t the Godmamas any more. I’m still not a better person. I worry about different things. I focus on different things. I spend my time and energy in different ways. Doesn’t mean I’m better. I’m different.

I don’t think I’m better than Aunt Cookie or Candy either. Even if they have opinions that are distinctly racist. Even if they have dozens of opinions that make me sick to my stomach… that doesn’t mean I’m a better person.

I’m a person with giant flaws, just like everyone else.

I need people to call me on my flaws in order for me to grow and change and become better. I am better than I was. I’m not perfect. I never will be. I do not aspire to perfection. I’m an asshole and ok with that.

The difference between me and the aunts is… I know I’m an asshole. They would hotly deny that they are. Even though they believe that people who end up homeless deserve to suffer. They think that their beliefs are just “justice”.

But I’m the only one who knows I’m an asshole. I think that human beings deserve dignity and support so I’m an unconsciounable asshole. Good thing I can live with that. I can be the kind of rude where I challenge racists in my life. I can’t be the kind of rude where I just shut up and allow people to be awful. I do not choose going along with the flow for the good of bigots. I do not care about avoiding conflict. If you want to avoid conflict with me you can leave the room.

That is the assurance that men walk around with. If you want to avoid an argument with them you can leave the room. I’ve decided that it is a trait and I want it. So I adopted it. I don’t back off.

I wouldn’t be here if I were more namby pamby.

I’m not important. I’m not special. I’m not someone who changes things. My reality distortion field only extends as far as my voice can reach. Maybe that is why I am so fucking loud now.

I didn’t used to be loud. When I was a child I was constantly in trouble for mumbling. No one could ever hear me. I got yelled at by dozens of teachers because I would raise my hand and then no one could understand me.

I don’t have that problem now.

I’m also getting better about being able to challenge people without having to scream at them. It’s progress. Now I can challenge in a flat voice. That’s a big improvement and I’m happy about it.

I have no interest in learning to avoid conflict. I do have interest in learning how to have conflict without acting like a harpy. Conflict is fine. Conflict is about challenging the status quo. I have a serious problem with the status quo. I want to change it.

The status quo involves too many people suffering terribly because of structural inequalities. I’m not ok with that. Structural inequalities need to be addressed. We are at a point in history where we have no justification beyond pure greed for continuing to allow this many people to live with starvation and homelessness.

We have major structural racial problems in the world. Not just in my country. Acting like they aren’t real is… not something I can do. Not even to make someone feel more comfy about how short sighted their world is. Can’t do it.

I will always be willing to point out real, hard things. Even if that makes me an asshole. I think that is my role here. Sometimes I’m wrong about the things I think I see. That’s highly inconvenient.

Sometimes I don’t know how to translate what I see into useful words that other people can understand. Frequently I don’t know the approach that will spur other people into seeing things as I see them. I don’t know how to be the universal translator. I wish I could be.

I wish I could be.

Lots of big feelings

2 Replies

The trip is going well. I am so gosh darned tired I feel like I might slip into a puddle and never solidify into a solid being again.

I had a hard time with Noah’s aunts. They grew up in particular times and places and they believe what they believe. Unfortunately for them there is a whole bunch of evidence proving that their beliefs suck.

I am highly dysregulated. I am having a hard time calming down. Too many conversations about poverty and homelessness and race. I really don’t respect the opinions they have.

One aunt spent a long time telling me about how much she enjoys reading the journals of settlers and colonials. They only killed people when they had no choice.

Uhm… go read something written by the folks that the settlers barely avoided killing. You will hear a very different story.

No. The white assholes who showed up on this continent because they were being chased out of their European homes did not kill Native Americans because the Natives were trying to persecute the white people. No. No. No. No.

We are interlopers here. We do not get to claim that our existence here is just about our basic survival. We are stealing in order to survive.

Depending on how you look at it, all humans have been thieves since the beginning. We steal from plants and animals in order to survive. That’s complicated. It’s a hard ethical conundrum. Vegetarians believe that by not eating flesh that you are fine for how you are stealing. Vegans think it must be even more strict and milk and eggs are also over the line.

But no one ever objects to stealing from the artichokes or carrots or cauliflower. We’ve decided they can’t matter.

But that’s kind of funny.

Throughout history many groups of human beings have decided that other groups of human beings don’t matter in similar ways. Sometimes we make these evaluations based on race. Sometimes based on economic privilege. Sometimes based on work choices. If you look around the planet, folks feel free to shit on sex workers in almost every country that exists. Even though sex work is one of the most universal, oldest professions that exists. We still want to punish any individual who engages in it.

Why?

One of the aunts spent a lot of time telling me that she hated the Occupiers and she thinks folks who are homeless are just lazy and they need to get a job.

I told her, are you aware that it takes two or more full time jobs to afford rent, not including utilities or food or a car in most states for people who work minimum wage? You bought your property in 1981 with help. No, other people can’t do what you did. It is really awful for you to think that people who can’t do what you did are lazy. How dare you.

You bought a property for fairly cheap. You had help for 20 years of your mortgage. How dare you say that other people who can’t do what you did are lazy.

Are you aware that historically speaking black people have been shut out of owning property?

This is not about lazy.

Are you aware that the largest race riot in our American history was white people who were jealous that black people were doing too well? But we’ve had a lot of race riots. Mostly they erupt because white people are persecuting non-whites. It is bullshit.

I don’t deal well with people who are incapable of seeing the layers of privilege that built their lives. We are all made up of support and relationships with people. Unfortunately there are major demographics who have traditionally not received support. And they are currently struggling much more significantly than demographics that have traditionally received more support.

I want to equalize that. We can’t go back and fix everything bad that has ever happened. I don’t want to. That’s not the point of life. But we can make it so the people who are alive right now have more access to ways to better their lives.

We don’t have to punish people for being disadvantaged. We don’t have to punish people for being icki and poor and not what we want to look at. We can choose compassion. We can choose to help people just because they exist and they should exist.

I want you to exist. Even when I don’t like you. Even if I want to shout at you because your opinions are just flat terrible. You do worthy things. Even if those things don’t benefit me in any way shape or form. Not everything is about me.

Not everyone has to benefit me in order to be worthy.

I’m getting better at defending the intensity of my opinions without having to scream at people and tell them how much I hate them for having the opinions they have. I’m glad for that. I am modeling better behavior for my children. I am teaching them to be fierce, but not mean.

I’m trying. I’m trying to model what I think should exist. Have strong opinions. They matter. They help. They are important. But try to express them in a way that will educate instead of alienate.

I really suck at that.

Last night was so awesome. Dad and I got stoned together and I unloaded on him. He’s not an emotional guy. He doesn’t really want to hear about feelings. Ha ha mother fucker. You adopt me and you get what you get. If you want to be my Dad you get to find out what I’m like. And that means listening to an hour or so of emotional unloading every other year or so. Suck it, buddy. Just cope. You can manage.

He did. He’s wonderful to me. I listened to what was going on with his life. He is struggling more than I am. That’s… kind of weird to me. He’s supposed to be the stable grown up. Only now I’m the stable grown up. How the fuck did that happen?

He’s had a hard time since his wife died. Things have been rocky. It makes sense. That has been seven years now. His business failed and that was really hard financially and emotionally. He likes his current job, but it doesn’t pay that much and he has a lot of bills. Complicated. He’s really depressed.

He expresses admiration for my obsessive saving. Which is awkward. I appreciate his positive feedback on my skills but it is uncomfortable too. I don’t think I should be doing better than other people. That is not my self-perception. If I do something well, emotionally, I want it to be because any one can do it and it isn’t very hard. That isn’t true any more though. I’m good at a lot of things that most people suck at. I am an incredibly skilled person.

That’s hard to accept sometimes. I don’t ever get to use the excuse that I just can’t any more. I can find a way. That’s daunting. Overwhelming. Too much pressure. I don’t want to be able to find a way. I want to have the excuse that I don’t have to.

But I’m exceptionally competent. If I don’t do something it is probably because I choose not to and not because I can’t. That’s…

Shit. I’m out of excuses. I like excuses.

Talking to Dad is intense on a variety of levels. As the years go by I am increasingly willing to share my opinion on what I see. “You are selfish in a short sighted way. If we could get your selfishness to see the long-view then I think your romantic life would improve.” He is strangely willing to listen to me now whereas ten years ago he snorted and said what the hell do I know.

Now he’s had two marriages go badly and mine is doing well and he’s willing to listen.

He spent a lot of time questioning whether I was on the road trip because my marriage is rocky. He had a really hard time believing that Noah would be ok with this kind of separation unless we were on the verge of divorce.

Nope, we are very happy together. Lots of sex. Lots of good conversation. We really enjoy one another’s company. But I’m a traveler and he’s not. He loves me anyway just like I love him for being a home body. We are ok with supporting one another through divergent experiences. We don’t have to do everything together. It’s ok if we are different.

It is part of why I am so very happy to be married to Noah. He doesn’t want a Mrs. Noah Gibbs who is there to facilitate his life. He wants to be partnered with Krissy Gibbs. Who is bad ass and does cool things.

He’s bummed when people think I’m cool because he married me. He thinks that is missing the point of me. I am not cool because he sticks his dick in me. I’m cool so he wants to stick his dick in me. People should get the order right.

I really like Noah. I am ridiculously happy to be married to someone who trusts me and who works as hard as he works. I like hard workers. I like people who pick goals and then put their head down and accomplish them come hell or high water. I really like Noah. He inspires me. He also taunts me and I want to punch him for it. But I don’t because we do not have that kind of relationship.

Noah causes me to think really hard about my ever expanding repertoire of skills. He isn’t ok with me minimizing my abilities. He says, “Nope. You don’t get to think you are incompetent any more. You probably never were but you don’t get to think it now.”

I cannot express what knowing him has meant to me. He believes in me. He believes in me the way other people believe in G-d. He thinks I can just do things. So I can.

Thank you.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen to the world if everyone had someone who believed in them as much as Noah believes in me. It would be a really incredible planet. I wish I could see that planet.

I want to be part of a world where people build one another up instead of tearing each other down. That was the hard part of dealing with the aunts. I didn’t want to tear them down in the process of educating them and that is hard. Tearing people down is so much easier than building them up.

How do you teach people to see that they are privileged because they grew up with a highly educated parent who had the ability to teach them a variety of skills that other people never know exists? How do you teach people to see that they are lucky and blessed because they got to have abusive help for a period of time?

Some people get no help at all. Not even packaged with abuse. No one wants to help them from the get-go.

Can we get over this idea that people need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps? That’s a crock of shit. The people who survive and who do well are people who have neighbors who show up to help. Not people who do it alone.

I’ve tried doing it alone and I’ve tried finding a network of support. Finding the network is horrifyingly hard. It is emotionally draining and hurtful. There are hundreds of false starts. It feels hopeless most of the time. But then you notice that this time when you fell down someone was there to grab your elbow and keep you from landing on the concrete.

I believe in the MonkeySphere. I believe my connections to human beings are the reason I am alive. Mostly through Shanna and Calli and Noah, but my friends are important. My friends matter so much.

If I weren’t at Dad’s house I wouldn’t be able to see the extent of how much he loves me and would do if I needed it. He’s never going to be able to provide financial support–he might need it in the future. But he has been emotional support for almost 16 years. He has supported me through many different changes in my life. He adapts with me as I change radically and he really wishes he didn’t have to.

I see you. I appreciate you.

Looks like my kids are going to be his grandkid experience. His bio-kids are respectively one and two years younger than me. His son is only going to have children if there is a catastrophic accident and he’s considering pre meditative surgery. Just to be safe. Dad’s bio-daughter is 30 and doesn’t have a partner. Her mom would like her to have kids but she isn’t real interested in single parenting and things aren’t lining up.

It is weird seeing that I am creating a place for myself. I am in the middle of generations. I help interpret going up and going down. I really appreciate that I get to spend so much of my life teaching people how to get along. Kids and adults. That probably isn’t how other people see how I spend my time… but it is how I see what I’m doing. I give other adults a lot of feedback. I try to do it in ways that won’t cause them to turn around and yell at me to back off (I’m pretty deft) but I’m a bossy motherfucker. I’m going to volunteer my view whether you like it or not.

And there are people who keep me around even though I’m highly obnoxious. My life is great.

Last night I told Dad that I feel very safe unloading on him at this point because I know that he likes having me around. He laughed and asked why I am so sure. I said, “I’ve watched you for a lot of years. When you are done with people you get mean. Your jokes are more and more cutting. You point out their flaws more frequently and with more venom. It is hard to watch when you are doing it to people I like. It is part of why I don’t spend more time with you. I don’t want to wear out my welcome. You have never treated me that way and I want to continue this trend.”

He got quiet and thoughtful. After a while he nodded and said, “You are right. I do like you a lot. I’m not sick of you.” He didn’t say that much more about it. He’s not the sort.

I’m sitting in Dad’s back yard resting. I’m thinking about doing some weeding. He’s been really sad and just isn’t keeping up with the house and yard. I cleaned his pipes this morning. If you are going to pollute your lungs, at least don’t do it through an inch of tar, come on.

I’ll clean the kitchen after lunch and before I make dinner. Boy it needs it. I’ll probably clean the bathroom tomorrow because there is mildew starting. This house is more than twice the size of my house, I can see why he is having a hard time keeping up. He used to be able to pay help and now he can’t. I think he should down size but it’s complicated.

Everything is complicated.

Maybe the girls and I will come out here and weed his beds and run over to a nursery. We can put a handful of low-maintenance veggies in so he continues to feel loved after we leave. It is weird how plants do that. I don’t understand it, but I’m starting to see it and exploit the loop hole. Yay for exploitable techniques.

Holy moly we’ve been seeing great yards. Aunt Cookie and my friend W have gorgeous yards. These ladies are accomplished. It was a real treat to visit and see the results of their hard work. I feel so inspired. I need to touch some dirt. I need to put in more plants. The planet needs more plants.

Maybe I can ask him if one of his beds can be a wild flower seed mix for birds and butterflies. So when the flowers come up he can think of us.

We love you and we want you to be here.

I love pot. Today I’m not driving so I’m heavily medicated. Right in this moment I feel like if the biggest burdens in my life are dealing with some classist, racist, mostly decent people… I can work with that. I like educating people. I will learn how to talk about these topics. It is very important to me that people like them learn why they are wrong. I understand that they will be more likely to listen to someone they perceive as being like them. They see me as being like them.

They are wrong as fuck, but that’s ok.

It’s an exploitable loop hole. No, I’m not like you. But I know how to ape some of your class markers and I have learned to do so out of self-preservation. I have learned how to make people like you stop hitting me. I’m not like you.

I’m never going to stop being a fierce person. I believe it is necessary. But I want to learn how to temper it when I choose. I want it to be more under control. I want it to be a tool in my tool box and not the defining explanation of what I’m like. I believe that being capable of violence is necessary for self preservation. I’m going to get better at being lethal and learn how to stop the bullshit posturing.

I don’t need to win the dick contests. Even though mine is bigger.

I don’t like what I win. How is being the biggest dick a good thing?

Well, it’s a good thing when I can get men to back the fuck off of being bossy and/or controlling but quick. There has to be another way.

I struggle with the grey area of wanting to be more open and inviting and wanting to be all go the fuck away.

What is the path? Who knows. I’m just walking.

Holy crud out of the blue

2 Replies

I was sitting at dinner with my lovely family and out of the blue I had really strong visualization of cutting myself really badly. Cutting myself in flamboyant, very attention-getting ways. Razor blades from the wrist to the elbow. Screaming and flailing at the same time.

I have no idea where this visualization came from. It was sudden. It was intense. I had to really consciously choose to not beat my head on the table because my first impulse was to try and get it out of my head by beating my head on the table. Like I almost slammed my face into my dinner. It was disorienting and weird.

I have no idea what the fuck is up with that. Not fun.

Otherwise I’m pretty sure I’m done packing other than perishable food. It will take about 15 minutes to round it up.

We leave in just over 17 hours. I’m tired and feeling kind of flattened.

I’m going to sleep a lot. Tomorrow I want to take a very very very long bath. With epsom salts.

I find it weird that I had the intense visualization given that my general anxiety level has been going down all day. As I get closer to “go” I’ve been settling down. I’ve been feeling better. All of a sudden I feel completely not ok. But I’m going to sit on this.

How I feel doesn’t really matter. What matters is what I do. I noted to Noah, “I’ll write about it later. This is when it started.” I’m pretty sure that other than blinking more times than usual I didn’t otherwise act inappropriately.

Right this second I’m scared of going so long without a consistent witness. Who will make sure I’m appropriate?

Well tonight Noah asked/gave Calli permission to call me on having a negative attitude. I suppose she will be the one to make sure I’m not too much of a bitch.

Have I mentioned lately how much I fucking love that my children have the courage to stand up to me? Grown men are afraid of me. Not my bad ass little babies.

Shanna is developing a very negative attitude about the trip. She doesn’t want to leave Noah. I’m… trying to be ok with it. I’m being supportive of her having feelings. I am sympathizing. I’m still implacable. “We’re going. Why? Because we have things to learn.”

I feel like I am drowning in waves of guilt. We are leaving because I want to run away. Because I need a break. Because I’ve been standing in one place too fucking long. Because I have always wanted to see what the country is like. Because I wanna.

Because I wanna and I’m selfish and you have to come with me.

For just a few years you have to keep me company. I hope it isn’t too awful. I hope you will have some fun. Calli is acting like she will have fun.

I’m trying not to be an asshole about “At least one daughter likes me.” Shanna does like me. But she really likes her dad and her computer and she wants to stay. Not too long ago she was happy to follow me to the ends of the earth and I was enough. I’m having feels. I’ll get over them. This is appropriate.

I hope we will have fun together.

I hope she will not remember this as something her crazy mother dragged her through. I pray.

Both kids are still absolutely adamant that they want to keep home schooling. I’m not dragging them through everything. Shanna says that if Noah were coming with us more she wouldn’t feel resistant to the road trip. That makes sense. She says the around-the-world trip sounds awesome because he will be with us.

Yeah honey… but there are steps here we need to figure out. If we can’t make this work we can’t spend a year away. We have to manage five months away first.

We can do it. But will you still like me?

I like you. I know there are going to be years where you don’t like me much. I’m trying to be ok with it. I know it isn’t personal. It’s normal and appropriate. Lots of books tell me so.

Sometimes I find it startling how “normal” and “text-book” my kids are. They have normal, happy people problems. I love watching it. And I will continue to do whatever I must to not beat my head in front of them. I will not cut. I will not let them see me harm myself on purpose. Just no.

I will not be how you learn about these behaviors. Or, rather, you will not learn about them by watching me.

I will teach you to love your body, to say kind things about it, and to be gentle with yourself. That’s my job.

Every single time I’m having a hard time emotionally I want to say mean/petty/vindictive things. So far I have managed to bite my tongue because I chant in my head, “Their negative inside voice will not come from you.”

My goal is to ensure that my children never hear nasty tapes in their head of my voice dressing them down. That will not be our relationship.

I hear my mom scream that I am a stupid cunt. A bitch. Unwanted. Dirty. Nasty. Pathetic. I don’t know how to stop those tapes.

I can’t stop them in my head but I can make sure I don’t put them in my daughters’ heads.

I mean… I tell my kids that they are obnoxious and annoying… just like their parents. I grin while I say it. It generally comes out something like, “WHY DID YOU HAVE TO TURN OUT AS ANNOYING AS ME?!?!?!” They laugh.

“You are supposed to be obnoxious. If you weren’t obnoxious you would have to turn in your kid-badge.”

When I’m being scary my kids will stand there, straight and tall, and tell me, “You are using a mean voice and you need to stop.” Sometimes they are crying… but they do it. I tell them they are right and I do stop. Thank you for telling me.

I’ve had an interesting thing with Shanna lately. I love her hair. I have always loved to stroke her head and she has mostly barely tolerated me touching her. Since it was dyed… I uhm… I’m being annoying. I want to play with it and braid it. I PAID SO MUCH MONEY! I WANT TO PLAY WITH THE COOL TOY!!! Uhm… Shanna has these opinions about it being her body or some bullshit.

Who has been telling her this crap?!

Anyway, I was trying to cajole her into letting me braid her hair. Cool pink and blue streaks are super duper fun and I like playing with plaiting. Shanna resisted some and I cajoled some.

At some point I said, “You know what… I’m pestering which isn’t cool; it is your body. If you really don’t want me to play with your hair I won’t.”

She said, “I feel like you haven’t been very respectful of my body lately.”

I felt like I got sucker punched.

I said, “Oh. Well, I think what is happening is that your boundaries are changing and I didn’t notice. We are going to have to have lots of conversations over the years. We started out with you being a little lump I carried around at all times and it was ok for me to touch you whenever I wanted. That will change slowly and sometimes quickly and I’ll need to be told. I can’t read your mind to know when you change. Also, I’ve been pushing harder on brushing your hair for a few reasons. Know how we make a lot of unconventional choices like not going to school?”

She nodded.

“Well, when you choose to not do what most people do most of the time then you risk people having to come check up on you. Unfortunately when folks from the government come to check on kids… one of the first things they look at is whether you are clean and your hair is brushed. It’s stupid. It isn’t a measure of how well you are taken care of, not really. But people can look at it from a distance. I’ll try to be more respectful though.”

She asked a few more questions about the government checking up on families and then agreed that a basic brushing is reasonable daily. I’m to back off on wanting to play though.

It sucks.

I have watched a lot of movies about mothers and daughters this year. Lots. Dozens maybe. I’m on a kick. It is surprising to me how mother/daughter relationships are twisted around appearance and hair and the perceptions of other people. My relationship with my mom was complicated. She wanted my hair to be about 2″ long so that she didn’t have to be embarrassed all the time about how bad I looked.

I have to respect it when my daughters say no. Even if I don’t want to. Even if it would make *me* happy to ignore their wishes. I’ve got a long game going. I want them to be my friends in thirty years.

Given how cool I am at 33 I bet Shanna is going to be way fucking cooler at 37. Yeah, I really want to know them in thirty years. I want to be friends. And that means I have to be appropriate when they are kids.

It is harder some days than others. Today being appropriate is hard. I think I did ok though.

We went to get passports. We went to the bank; both girls are now square when it comes to allowance. Their savings accounts are up to date. My kids get $2/week for saving. So Shanna has over $700. It’s… honestly a bit weird. I couldn’t have imagined having so much when I was that age. Heck, it isn’t real to her. The $5/week of walking around money is what she sees. I’ve been talking to them about the save money for a while. They only kind of get it.

I drew the watering diagrams for the yards. I’m ready. It’s time to go.

I love you, Wonderland. I’ll come back.

Procrastinating

3 Replies

I still haven’t done the diagram for watering the plants when I’m gone. That is … man I just don’t want to fucking do it. Walk around the fucking yard and water the fucking plants. How god damn hard is that?

Only it is harder than that. Many of my plants have been selected because they are drought hardy. If you water them too often they will get root rot and die. I have one non-food high water plant that has to be watered just about daily. It’s special. I *fucking love* hydrangeas and I know I’m a selfish asshole for growing them here. I get *one* high water plant.

And then there is everything in the middle. And I should diagram the yard and explain it to Noah and the baby sitter. They need my explanation. But it sounds like work and I just don’t fucking want to do it.

I’m done packing. Well, except for perishable food. That’s the only stuff left to pack. I feel like I’m getting shit done.

But I don’t want to draw that god damn diagram. Don’t know why. I’ve been resisting for years. Every stupid ass gardening books wants you to diagram your land. Maybe that is why I am resisting. Because I’ve been told a lot of times by now. Anything I’m told to do many many times… I resist. No. Don’t wanna.

I really screw myself over. If my plants die, I will be the only one to cry.

The van is… perhaps more heavily loaded than is optimal. It will be good when we eat the food and finish reading the books so we can mail them home. We could easily/happily lose 200 lbs and the van would be happy.

I keep thinking, “Surely this isn’t as heavy as when I brought two cows home. Come on, van!”

I am truly astounded by what a work horse this vehicle is. I don’t think people usually buy minivans for the cargo abilities. They are for bodies, right? Hell no. You can put so much shit in there.

50 hours to go. That doesn’t feel like very long. I’m looking around the house. I should take pictures of the house and yard and post them so I can look at them when I’m feeling home sick.

I have spent most of my life feeling home sick even though I didn’t have a home to go back to. This is going to be a novel experience. I have a home. I belong here. I’m supposed to be here. I’m allowed to be here. I’m wanted here. It’s lovely.

Tomorrow morning Noah is going in to work a trifle late so we can renew the passports for the girls. I don’t need them for the road trip but we need them next year for the cruise. Best not to wait until we get back.

Tomorrow is up to three appointments. Passport, dim sum, and chiropractor. It’ll all work out. That’s not a hard day.

Wednesday I want to take a long bath and that’s it. I don’t want to do work. Poor Noah may come home to breakfast leftovers. Sorry, dude. We’ll see how antsy I feel.

Ok. Go do stuff.

That was lovely

1 Reply

Yesterday we had a going away party. It went pretty well. I had a lot of fun. I felt like I got to have interesting conversations.

It turns out that I am going to stay with some of my friends in New Hampshire. Friends from the bay area who go out there to vacation in the summer. They are going to make sure they line up with my schedule so we can hang out. That’s… that’s friendship.

There are even people who want to go on the cruise. I’m shocked people want to spend that much money.

I am enjoying looking around my life at the demonstrable evidence of people caring about me. I’m very happy that I can look at the behavior of many people and say, “Clearly when I doubt you I am being delusional. You love me.”

It was a good party. The people who are very sure they want me to come back showed up. I know who my friends are.

Thank you.

Today I packed again. Like I do. I am almost settled in the van. I can’t think of anything other than perishable food and water I need to add. I need to pack the potty and the bikes on the trailer. Then I’m ready.

I’ll deal with the potty and the bikes tomorrow, probably. Just get it done. If someone steals my potty on this trip I will cry but I will just have to take the risk.

Tomorrow I have to make the garden watering directions. I’m still procrastinating. I’ve been seriously resisting this process for years. Not for any particular reason, I just…. don’t want to do it.

We see our dear baby sitter twice more. Eek. Tuesday we have a date for dim sum and I have a chiropractic appointment.

We will leave right after eating lunch on Wednesday.

I absolutely over packed food. It is… kind of humorous just how much I over packed food. It’s going to take over a month for us to start making a dent in what I have packed. Once I lighten the food load I will probably be able to take half the stuff out of the sky box. We have a ridiculous quantity of food. I didn’t realize quite how overboard I was going. Whoops.

There is the non-zero possibility we will be eating the same fruit leather in February.

Good thing they like fruit leather.

I’m going to have to eat a lot of fruit leather. Oh crap.

Shanna seems to be unfazed by her tooth extraction. It’s hard to get her to stop running around in circles. She’s ready to chew again. She’s happy about the pain being gone.

I guess we’re ready.

I will be blogging mostly on medium because that’s where I’ve elected to shunt my kid friendly writing to for now. For this year. I’ve migrated so much around the net that I no longer assume I’ll stay somewhere forever. Well, I hope I’ll stay here.

This is the stuff I can’t say anywhere else. This is my proof for me that I’m here and thinking.

I’m excited. I’m scared. I’m ready. At this point we’re within the 72 hour window. Less than 68 hours to go.

Not that I’m counting.

Resources

2 Replies

I like talking to people on social media. Recently I came across a nice young person who is heading off to grad school. Yay! Good for you. I made a semi-off-handed comment about “Are you pursuing services?” and I was asked what I was talking about.

I brought it up because this is a person of color heading to a school in an extremely white state. I’m *sure* support exists.

This person expressed surprise. There are services? What kind of services? What kind of support exists? How can I get help?

We are exchanging emails now. I feel like a Grade A Asshole, but one of the first things I suggested was reaching out to the Black Student Union and asking them about the culture on campus. Then you can talk to a local doctor in your home state, get an official on-the-record diagnosis (of problems you have already had for decades–this isn’t about making shit up, this is about a paper trail) and get support.

This person was shocked. They had never considered reaching out for that kind of support.

I didn’t know this support existed when I went to grad school. If I knew then what I know now… I would never have had to take a hand written test. I could have typed the final exam and I would have a masters degree. With my history there is *no excuse* for a school withholding a degree because I can’t hand write. My future work will not depend on my ability to hand write.

I feel weird suggesting resources that are *not for me*. It feels.. inappropriate. And yet!

I want more people of color to succeed in college and join the well-paid labor market. Resources help that happen. It doesn’t take a lot of time out of my day to reach out on social media to strangers who mention that stuff is going on for them. I don’t spend an hour a day. And countless people have told me that I show up on the exact right day to tell them something useful.

I really appreciate social media.

Trying to be less arm-injuring

Leave a reply

You may have noticed I’m not blogging as much. That’s related to a bunch of things. Some of which I feel comfortable writing about and other bits, yeah no.

I figure I will start blogging again when I’ve managed to move on to thinking about things I will get in less trouble over. For now, best to just shut the fuck up.

So I’m on Twitter a lot. I am really enjoying the interactions lately. Unlike my blog… people respond. I have conversations. I’m meeting interesting women all over the country. It isn’t just shouting into the void.

I doubt I will ever stop blogging, I need the long-form option sometimes. But I get tired of feeling like I’m alone in a room with my misery. On Twitter I’m never alone…

The fun never ends

Leave a reply

Shanna is going in for a tooth extraction today. I’m grateful we found someone who could do it before we leave. She’s had intermittent discomfort and her dentist is worry about it exploding into a big problem while we are traveling. It’s a baby tooth and has to come out anyway.

Noah has a long day. We won’t see him today until bed time. I’m glad I switched weeks with the baby sitter so she will be with the kids for four hours tonight while I go see the chiropractor. I hadn’t been looking forward to bringing them with me.

Tomorrow I have an appointment to update my medical card. I forgot about that until this weekend. Whoops. I need it to be current. The place I had been going to for evaluations is closed and I am very sad. I liked the doctor I saw there. Even if he was getting a bit skeazy.

So I found a place in town and I can go during baby sitting time on Wednesday. And Pam is coming and it is Noah’s birthday. It’ll feel busy too.

Thursday is pretty insane. We have an appointment in San Francisco at 11. Then appointments back in Fremont at 4 and 6:30. Woof. The first and third appointment will take multiple hours.

At this moment I have no plans on Friday. We invited folks over on Saturday. Sunday is a maybe play date that has a high chance of not happening.

Only eight days to go.

Next week I have baby sitting scheduled on Monday and Wednesday and dim sum with a friend on Tuesday and that’s all. I’m packing and resting because we leave on Wednesday.

From here we go to Noah’s aunt’s house in Davis. She’s excited about seeing us. I will bite holes in my tongue to not yell at the homophobe. The very first time she met me she felt comfortable making very homophobic comments and she’s lucky I’ve worked hard on my manners.

I’m not done cleaning the house. It’s Noah’s birthday present. I’m leaving a very clean house. I worked a lot yesterday. Today I will work after we get home from the dentist. Shanna will be sitting still and feeling woozy.

Oh, and tomorrow morning before I go to the doctor my wonderful neighbor is coming over to weed. We’ll work in the garden together for a few hours.

I feel like things are set. I don’t have a lot left to do.

Good memories

1 Reply

I was snuggled up between my two favorite girls last night and I thought about my mom. I remembered some good stuff. It made me cry, of course. But I want to remember the good parts.

So I ate ramen a lot. Years and years of ramen. I didn’t always eat it because there was no other option. Sometimes I refused food. Sometimes we had other things to eat and I just… couldn’t.

For example, my mom really liked liver and onions with boiled spinach. For the life of me I still don’t understand why she liked that meal… but she did. When she would cook it and eat it she didn’t pressure me to eat it. She kept her tone light and upbeat. She would lovingly taunt me about how gooooood it was. She told me I was missing out. She told me it would make me healthier and stronger.

I thought she was antagonizing me. I was not capable of accepting it as her attempt to be my parent.

I’m really sorry mom. I’m sorry I don’t give you enough credit for doing anything right. You did do some things right. You tried to get me to eat more diverse, healthier foods. You didn’t force the issue so that it became a battle. You allowed me to have a locus of control to balance out all the areas of my life I couldn’t control.

Thank you. There was no all-good or all-right decision there. There were only varying degrees of bad decisions. I think you made the right call even though I still deal with the nutritional deficits.

Thank you for never hitting me over food. Thank you for never berating me over eating.

Thank you. You did do some things right.

Violence and feminism

2 Replies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not. Fucking. Ok.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The innocent looking ones are often the most dangerous.

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

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

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

Pervy duckies

4 Replies

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

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

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

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

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

I think it is hilarious.

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

TRULY I AM LOVED. THIS IS SO AWESOME. I am very happy. Heh.

Running away from home

6 Replies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t like my culture very much.

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

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

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

It is so complicated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But probably not. I’m stupid.

(Not saying she is. Saying I am.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Record keeping

Leave a reply

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

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

Sex

1 Reply

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t know.

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

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

My stomach hurts.

This all feels so complicated.

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

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

Mad Max: Fury Road review

1 Reply

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a feminist movie.

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

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

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

I want something different.

Blank

Leave a reply

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

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

My back is improving. Thank goodness.

I’m scared. But it comes in waves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is complicated. Don’t wanna type more.

Loyalty

3 Replies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that those classes are actually taught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I know it.

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

Nervous

3 Replies

I’m scared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

State of the body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ok, I did my state of the body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I think a lot about my relationships.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She would have. If I had said it once.

I didn’t.

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

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

Not today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is really complicated.

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

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

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

My ideal reader

Leave a reply

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll masturbate anyway. I always do.

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

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

BUT WHEN SHE LEANS OVER CHRISTIAN SLATER PLAYING HER FATHER IN THE MOVIE YOU KNOW HE ISN’T REALLY OLDER THAN HER AND YOU KIND OF WANT HER TO FUCK HIM.

It’s sick.

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

Crud.

Leave a reply

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

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

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

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

I’m really scared.

22 days.

You just keep going

Do the best you can

Category Archives: adult-only

Family

Lots of big feelings

Procrastinating

That was lovely

Resources

Trying to be less arm-injuring

The fun never ends

Good memories

Violence and feminism

Pervy duckies

Running away from home

Record keeping

Sex

Mad Max: Fury Road review

Blank

Loyalty

Nervous

My ideal reader

Crud.