Does It Spark Joy?

 I was getting dressed this morning, looking at a pair of underwear that I bought - $50 for a set of undies. Now, they're supposedly "period proof" underwear - get real. I doubt that anyone is buying them for periods. We're buying them because our bladders have failed us - they're incompetent little bitches who can't hold their water - but that's a discussion for another day. Today, I want to talk about how I'm being charged $50, and these guys can't even be bothered to do a French hem. There are raw edges, unclipped threads... which led me to thinking about Grandma Lova. 

My grandmother was a professional seamstress. She sewed at the factory for 20 years - enough that her fingerprints had been worn away through erosion, rubbed out by constant contact with the rough fabric. Don't worry - I'm not going all Dolly Parton on you. For one thing, Grandma would be horrified - she was always much more practical than whimsical, and if a coat she made had many colors, she'd think it a failure of planning. For another, it's hard to get all misty-eyed about a pumpkin-orange leisure suit, which was the most memorable outfit she ever made me. But you can damn sure bet that pumpkin-orange leisure suit did not have any raw hems. 

But then there is the dress I'm wearing. This is probably the most significant piece of clothing I've ever had. Let me start at the beginning...  For my birthday, Mom got me a t-shirt - just a simple black t-shirt with white lettering, but it said "Vote Like Ruth Sent You" with a picture of her dissent collar. Now, if you know me, you know that I treasured Ruth Bader Ginsburg, so I loved the shirt... but I couldn't wear it much because my body is not built for t-shirts. It's the childbearing hips - ok, no, it's the continental shelf I've got hanging out the back, but anyway - t-shirts roll up and refuse to even try to cover it. 

But I was scrolling through Facebook and saw video of how a woman had repurposed her t-shirts into maxi-dresses and thought "Yeah! I could wear the heck out of that." and mentioned it to my Aunt Sherri. Aunt Sherri is the recipient of Grandma's sewing genes - she took the t-shirt and found 2 yards of fabric at Jo-anns and made me a dress (and several purpose filled scrunchies). Guys... it's how my family loves me, in a maxi. I'm in tears because of the love in this dress. 

He

 He's the vast unknown I'll spend my life exploring

He's a strong, safe bunker when the hurricane is roaring

And even when that hurricane might happen to be me

He'll minimize destruction and clean up the debris.

It's Not About The Dog

Living in the boonies, I may have a different view of Gov. Noem's self-immolation. For anyone who has been on vacation under a rock - she's put out an autobiography (for a very loose definition of a work that's supposed to be non-fiction) with some questionable claims, but the one that seems the oddest is that she shot her 14 month old hunting dog for being too... well, frisky? 

Now... death is a part of life out here. At some point, we've all got to go. And considering that guns are a basic tool of the trade for a farmer/rancher/cowboy, if an animal has become a danger to others (or to itself), a simple, merciful, quick shot to the head beats chasing them around with an axe or breaking their neck. But this dog wasn't a danger - it was just annoying her. She has tried to make it better, mentioning that the dog broke up a bird hunt and chased some chickens - yeah. That's why you find a place where the dog fits in - you move Champion back to Delaware where he's not dealing with the stranger stress, for example. 

But this isn't really about the dog, is it? It's about a way of looking at life.  Someone isn't living up to your expectations - do you get rid of them, try to hide them, or find them a way to be successful? Do you minimize your time and effort, or do you minimize their suffering? I'm advocating for kindness - vote your conscience. 

Peace Through Inner Howling

Sitting here with my pups, just chilling. Roger is out dealing with the irrigation, so the chances are high that I'm the only human within ear distance. Living in the city, you don't get that opportunity - you hush the dogs so that the neighbors don't get bothered. 

Anyway - the dogs started howling when he left, and rather than letting it bother me... I let my inner bitch join in the chorus. I howled. I howled anger at the universe for my current limbo. I howled frustration at being held trapped in amber - I don't get the pleasure of walking among the living, I don't get the release of a freed soul flying away, light as air at last. It felt good... expressing myself.  Like a huge pimple of hate-filled bile, just blasting out into the atmosphere and being drained of any pressure against my essence. I'd like to say that my howl rendered the pack silent, in awe of my pain, but nope. They just continued to whine... but at least, they modulated the chorus to let me in.

These are probably the last days of my life. Well, for a certain value of last, that's true of all of us, but let's just say that I'm past the accumulating stages of the campaign and I'm firmly in the "throw everything you got at the sumbitch" portion of the fight. I've never really lived quiet by choice, but I've been dimming myself, trying to stretch out the meager portion of days left to me, a miserly way to exist.  No more. I'm going out with a bang, damn it.