I think I may have been adopted.
If you've been following my various travails, you might remember Miss Daisy (well, I call her DaisDMona, based on her vocal protestations every time you stop petting her). She and Lili are Mom's dogs, and we've been taking care of them while Mom's in Oregon. For the most part, Daisy has decided that she's my puppy to deal with, and Lili has sensibly chosen Roger, although they tend to switch back and forth, based on who currently has food or open lap space.
Anyway - yesterday, Rog and I had a "town day". We went to Roosevelt to meet my new doctor (and get prescriptions filled - yeah! It worked!) and run errands, but by the end of it all, I was hitting the wall, big time. Hard core wiped out, had a hard time just getting down the hall. Daisy was very good about applying oxytocin, though - stayed mostly in my lap, making sure I was ok. But then, during the night, about 3:30, she started shoving me and dancing on top of me, trying her best to wake me up. Turns out that I was having a low blood sugar episode, and somehow, the little darling knew that I needed to wake up and deal with it - just like Moose used to. I have no clue how she knew - but then I'm starting to get used to miracles occurring.
Anyway - I got up, ate, spent some time watching political tv while I could without inflicting it on anyone else and finally slipped back into bed about 6ish. She let me sleep until 9, but then she started a terrorism campaign to get me out of the bed - barking at me, dancing on top, shoving cold noses into my back... I finally gave in to her terrierist ways, got up - and she snuggled back under the covers and promptly went to sleep, as if her work here was done. Yep, she's definitely got some Moose in her.
Wednesday, January 24, 2018
Saturday, January 20, 2018
Thoughts on the shutdown
In almost every Government office, there's one person who is essential. It's not the one with the big office with the windows, although they are usually allowed to think they're the one. No, it's the survivor in the corner, the one who has been there forever (usually), who has seen everything and knows how to navigate around it. They know how to fix the latest computer mess-up (generally because they schmoozed the ones who installed it, and paid attention). They know who to call when the copier throws another fit. They know who to talk to in Finance to get the needed supplies approved sometime before the next ice age. How do you find them? Look for the person with the best chair - the chair that's ergonomic perfection, that's like sitting on a cloud.
Ok, you might say - why is this important, and what does it have to do with the shutdown? In general (and for very limited periods of time), you can actually keep an office running with just these people. Not for long, and not at top efficiency, but at least the lights will stay on and basic functions will continue. In previous shutdowns, these were considered "essential employees" - they were designated as such, and came in and worked without a paycheck. Mostly because they were invested in their jobs - it meant something to them that the job get done, as well as it could. Civic duty, and all that. But also because they were fairly confident, under the Clinton and Obama administrations, that at some point they'd be made whole.
As for this shutdown - I'm not as sanguine. For one thing, this administration has been leaking these employees like a sieve. They've been reassigning them to worthless positions, or canning them with no notice, or just making life miserable enough by preventing them from doing the job they signed up to do that they go ahead and put in their retirement papers. They've also been installing management idiots that wouldn't recognize genuine skills if they were whacked over the head with them. Then there's Mic Mulvaney - have you listened to this guy? Good luck getting paid back for that unpaid overtime from this schlub...
I'm just saying - I think this one is going to be painful. More painful than previous shutdowns, for both federal employees and for the general public.
Sincerely,
She who used to have a chair with a higher IQ than some congressmen
Ok, you might say - why is this important, and what does it have to do with the shutdown? In general (and for very limited periods of time), you can actually keep an office running with just these people. Not for long, and not at top efficiency, but at least the lights will stay on and basic functions will continue. In previous shutdowns, these were considered "essential employees" - they were designated as such, and came in and worked without a paycheck. Mostly because they were invested in their jobs - it meant something to them that the job get done, as well as it could. Civic duty, and all that. But also because they were fairly confident, under the Clinton and Obama administrations, that at some point they'd be made whole.
As for this shutdown - I'm not as sanguine. For one thing, this administration has been leaking these employees like a sieve. They've been reassigning them to worthless positions, or canning them with no notice, or just making life miserable enough by preventing them from doing the job they signed up to do that they go ahead and put in their retirement papers. They've also been installing management idiots that wouldn't recognize genuine skills if they were whacked over the head with them. Then there's Mic Mulvaney - have you listened to this guy? Good luck getting paid back for that unpaid overtime from this schlub...
I'm just saying - I think this one is going to be painful. More painful than previous shutdowns, for both federal employees and for the general public.
Sincerely,
She who used to have a chair with a higher IQ than some congressmen
Monday, January 15, 2018
Day 5 at the Ranch
The little girls cuddled briefly this morning, but since then have been staging a "not the mama" sit down strike out on the driveway, while Duke patrols the ranch, keeping out evil-doers. I'm not too worried - I have two main advantages over the girls. I have a knowledge of the refrigerator, and an opposable thumb. They'll come in when they're hungry.
It's definitely different here - Saturday night was family night, with lots of people, lots of dogs, and clay pigeon slaughter out in the backyard. One of the cousins was surprised that Roger knew how to shoot, and I had to remind her that he was in the Army - in fact he spent time in South Korea at Camp Gary Owen, among other places.
Thursday, January 11, 2018
Notes from the road: Steven King Meets Mayberry
On our trip, as we passed through the wilds of Eastern Oregon, we had just passed Baker City when Roger's gas light came on. We were a little worried because Ontario was still farther away than we wanted to try to press our luck, but fortunately, both GPS systems indicated that Huntington was within range, with both a Texaco and a Chevron, so we should be fine. First lesson - put not your faith in GPS systems.
We hit the turnoff for Huntington, and I started to get nervous - there were several suspiciously gas-station shaped buildings boarded up, and a general air of abandonment. Not to mention that there was low-lying fog, several mournful looking cows, trucks appearing from nowhere to pass us heading back to civilization... the only sign of habitation was a hand-lettered Truck Repair sign. Nevertheless, we followed the GPS coordinates - straight to a State Park. Not good.
We went back to the Truck Repair place and sent Daniel in to knock on the door - the red door. The only spot of color in an otherwise gray landscape. The perfectly nice man told us that we just needed to head on down the road a couple more miles - "It's right after the marijuana dispensary, you can't miss it", he said, going back to his odd-smelling barbeque (ok, I may be embellishing a little - but I swear, he looked like he owned a cleaver and knew what to do with it.)
So, we continued on, past barbed-wire fences, poles tilting toward the road as if something had escaped captivity, over the part of the road where it seemed to have been washed out, until suddenly...
The sun appeared, the weed store was on the left, there were white picket fences everywhere, and there was an honest-to-God Country Store, with one fuel pump and a lovely, helpful proprietress who bore an uncanny resemblance to Aunt May. We filled up the trucks, escaped with our lives and headed on down I-84... but I think I heard a deep chuckle behind us, as though we were allowed to leave as a warning to others.
We hit the turnoff for Huntington, and I started to get nervous - there were several suspiciously gas-station shaped buildings boarded up, and a general air of abandonment. Not to mention that there was low-lying fog, several mournful looking cows, trucks appearing from nowhere to pass us heading back to civilization... the only sign of habitation was a hand-lettered Truck Repair sign. Nevertheless, we followed the GPS coordinates - straight to a State Park. Not good.
We went back to the Truck Repair place and sent Daniel in to knock on the door - the red door. The only spot of color in an otherwise gray landscape. The perfectly nice man told us that we just needed to head on down the road a couple more miles - "It's right after the marijuana dispensary, you can't miss it", he said, going back to his odd-smelling barbeque (ok, I may be embellishing a little - but I swear, he looked like he owned a cleaver and knew what to do with it.)
So, we continued on, past barbed-wire fences, poles tilting toward the road as if something had escaped captivity, over the part of the road where it seemed to have been washed out, until suddenly...
The sun appeared, the weed store was on the left, there were white picket fences everywhere, and there was an honest-to-God Country Store, with one fuel pump and a lovely, helpful proprietress who bore an uncanny resemblance to Aunt May. We filled up the trucks, escaped with our lives and headed on down I-84... but I think I heard a deep chuckle behind us, as though we were allowed to leave as a warning to others.
Monday, January 8, 2018
Monday Mourning, Coming Down.
I want to say that mornings are the hardest... but then again, it's all pretty rough. However, our morning routine was so practiced, so absolute - it feels like every motion I go through is truncated, incomplete somehow.
First off - there's no one to nag me about spending too much time in the bathroom. I can sit there, reading to my heart's content, without the gradual escalation of first hearing his heavy breathing under the doorway, followed by a soft little "wuff", and then the heavy artillery - the low whine. The "I'm a poor abandoned orphan" whine. The whine that has everyone with any heart reaching for the phone to call the ASPCA. I could actually finish a WaPo article if I wanted to... I just don't have the interest anymore.
Then there's the chair. I have full occupancy of the chair now - I don't have to contort my body to make room for a furry comma to wrap itself around my body, settling at the hip. I can count out my various morning pills in peace, no wet little nose nudging my arm, trying for a few more ear skritches. God, I miss that warmth!
And typing... I can go ahead and type at full speed, not having to deploy my arms in a contortionist's pose around a rub-starved belly shoved between me and the keyboard. I just can't see what it is I'm typing because my eyes are swollen from too many tears.
I know - this is just the first couple of days, I'll get over it, I'll move on. Well, literally, I'm moving on - we leave for Utah tomorrow. But for today... God, I miss my boy.
First off - there's no one to nag me about spending too much time in the bathroom. I can sit there, reading to my heart's content, without the gradual escalation of first hearing his heavy breathing under the doorway, followed by a soft little "wuff", and then the heavy artillery - the low whine. The "I'm a poor abandoned orphan" whine. The whine that has everyone with any heart reaching for the phone to call the ASPCA. I could actually finish a WaPo article if I wanted to... I just don't have the interest anymore.
Then there's the chair. I have full occupancy of the chair now - I don't have to contort my body to make room for a furry comma to wrap itself around my body, settling at the hip. I can count out my various morning pills in peace, no wet little nose nudging my arm, trying for a few more ear skritches. God, I miss that warmth!
And typing... I can go ahead and type at full speed, not having to deploy my arms in a contortionist's pose around a rub-starved belly shoved between me and the keyboard. I just can't see what it is I'm typing because my eyes are swollen from too many tears.
I know - this is just the first couple of days, I'll get over it, I'll move on. Well, literally, I'm moving on - we leave for Utah tomorrow. But for today... God, I miss my boy.
Saturday, January 6, 2018
Too Many Ghosts In This House
I don't know how widows and widowers do it. How do they survive the first day? Hell, how do they survive the first hour? It feels like he's everywhere in this house - every time I go to do something, I get reminded that there should be a little furry tyrant dictating exactly how that thing should be done. Oh, right - I don't have to worry about leaving the bedroom door slightly open so that he can guard the house in the middle of the night anymore. I can go ahead and eat that last bite of sandwich - I don't need to appease the walking stomach. I can go to the bathroom now, secure in the knowledge that my own little Norman Bates won't be breathing his hot breath under the door, trying to lure me out of my sanctuary. I don't have to make sure there is a clear path across the couch to my chair... hell, I don't have to deploy his favorite blanket across my lap the minute I sit down. I'm never again going to be ruled by his loving demands...
God, I've got to stop crying! I'm making myself sick from dehydration, and I can't afford to be sick right now. We're moving on Tuesday, and I've never been more certain of the need to move - I can't stay in this house where every single piece of furniture reminds me of my little furry shadow. 13 years we were together... a quarter of my lifetime. Not nearly long enough. Never long enough.
God, I've got to stop crying! I'm making myself sick from dehydration, and I can't afford to be sick right now. We're moving on Tuesday, and I've never been more certain of the need to move - I can't stay in this house where every single piece of furniture reminds me of my little furry shadow. 13 years we were together... a quarter of my lifetime. Not nearly long enough. Never long enough.
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Silly Solstice (Stolen from the Fallen Angel Choir, who stole it from the Karamozoff Brothers)
(Sung to the tune of Sentimental Journey)
We would like to wish you Merry Christmas
But we're not all Christians here
Hannukah would reach the same objection
What's universal this time of year?
New year! We'd like to wish you Merry New Year!
But it's not the start of the Jew's year
Or of the Chinese
It's hard as heck to be politically correct.
Guess that all that's left is Winter Solstice
Of all the others, that's the cause.
Have yourself a very Silly Solstice!
Ritually sacrifice a Santa Claus.
Thursday, December 7, 2017
See You Later, Al
I just saw Franken's speech announcing his resignation. In an ideal world, I wish he could have stayed in and gone through the ethics review process - considering the allegations against him are (mostly) the kind where the two people involved might have seen the situation in two entirely different ways (not getting into the last allegation against him, which he denies). But I understand the current political climate is one where we are at war, and there is going to be collateral damage.
What I would like to see... Mr Franken talk with his accusers, apologize to them for any damage done, work with them to make things right, and then come back and run for office with a fresh deck, clear to be the effective legislator he has been, working for justice, equality and making America truly great, rather than just sloganized. I'd like to see that happen in a lot of these cases - men who have screwed up recognize their actions, work to correct them, and receive whatever forgiveness they deserve. Of course, that's not going to be possible for a lot of actions - those men who knew what they were doing at the time they did it and aren't sorry at all they got caught are slime, and should be shunned - but I think we need to recognize that in the minefield of relations between the genders, not every explosion is deliberate.
What I would like to see... Mr Franken talk with his accusers, apologize to them for any damage done, work with them to make things right, and then come back and run for office with a fresh deck, clear to be the effective legislator he has been, working for justice, equality and making America truly great, rather than just sloganized. I'd like to see that happen in a lot of these cases - men who have screwed up recognize their actions, work to correct them, and receive whatever forgiveness they deserve. Of course, that's not going to be possible for a lot of actions - those men who knew what they were doing at the time they did it and aren't sorry at all they got caught are slime, and should be shunned - but I think we need to recognize that in the minefield of relations between the genders, not every explosion is deliberate.
Monday, November 27, 2017
Rant: Mortgage Blues
Warning - this is going to be a rant. A big old rant. There may be curse words.
About 10 years ago, we took out a small second mortgage on the house to fix the roof. At the time, I set up an automatic withdrawal, twice a month (since we were both paid bi-weekly), and we've paid it faithfully - in fact, it's down under $3K at this point, so almost paid off. I got a letter in the mail (with no special markings or anything - from someone I've never heard of) stating that my mortgage was being transferred to a business I've never dealt with.
Now, first off - I was given no option in this transfer. Ok, I understand that banks do this stuff all the time, but... they also inform me that I'm going to need to re-do my automatic withdrawal. Now, I know damned well that it's possible for them to transfer that info - my primary mortgage has been transferred at least twice, with no needed input from me. So, now I'm on the hook for getting things reestablished (in the middle of trying to sell the house, move, everything else), with a vendor that I have no established contacts with, that expects me to send them the info through the mail. Right. That's not going to work for me. So I am going to have to figure out a way to get this paid off and out of my hair...
Oh, and they want me to send them information on any other mortgage I may happen to have. They can go spit for information on any other mortgage I may happen to have. HBSC frankly has been one of my worst decisions, and if I had it to do all over again, I would not have done it with them.
About 10 years ago, we took out a small second mortgage on the house to fix the roof. At the time, I set up an automatic withdrawal, twice a month (since we were both paid bi-weekly), and we've paid it faithfully - in fact, it's down under $3K at this point, so almost paid off. I got a letter in the mail (with no special markings or anything - from someone I've never heard of) stating that my mortgage was being transferred to a business I've never dealt with.
Now, first off - I was given no option in this transfer. Ok, I understand that banks do this stuff all the time, but... they also inform me that I'm going to need to re-do my automatic withdrawal. Now, I know damned well that it's possible for them to transfer that info - my primary mortgage has been transferred at least twice, with no needed input from me. So, now I'm on the hook for getting things reestablished (in the middle of trying to sell the house, move, everything else), with a vendor that I have no established contacts with, that expects me to send them the info through the mail. Right. That's not going to work for me. So I am going to have to figure out a way to get this paid off and out of my hair...
Oh, and they want me to send them information on any other mortgage I may happen to have. They can go spit for information on any other mortgage I may happen to have. HBSC frankly has been one of my worst decisions, and if I had it to do all over again, I would not have done it with them.
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Autocorrect/Auto-da-fe
I've been fighting with my Kindle lately. I know - fighting with inanimate objects is a sign of a disturbed mind. Your point? But the thing is... I didn't start this one.
See, the thing is I love words. More importantly, I love using the exact word - le mot juste. Heck, I'll go so far as to use French to come up with just the right expression. So it drives me bonkers when I type in a carefully considered screed, only to realize that for some unknown reason, my Kindle has autocorrected the word greedheads to the word Greenpeace. No. Greenpeace has absolutely nothing to do with the rising price of insulin, while the greedhead CEOs of pharmaceutical companies should be lined up against the wall and... never mind. Let's just say my rant is less effective than it should have been because some machine is trying to correct my vocabulary.
And ok - I can accept that greedhead might not be in the Kindle dictionary. But in a comment about honey-mustard Pringles, I wrote the phrase "reek of self-regret". Reek - perfectly good word, should be in any proper dictionary. Kindle changed it to "feel of self-regret". No, damn it! I said reek, I meant reek! I can accept that perhaps I have an oversized vocabulary. But why is Kindle trying to dumb my comments down?
I know, I should just turn autocorrect off. But it does come in handy - at times. I just wish it would keep its opinions to itself.
See, the thing is I love words. More importantly, I love using the exact word - le mot juste. Heck, I'll go so far as to use French to come up with just the right expression. So it drives me bonkers when I type in a carefully considered screed, only to realize that for some unknown reason, my Kindle has autocorrected the word greedheads to the word Greenpeace. No. Greenpeace has absolutely nothing to do with the rising price of insulin, while the greedhead CEOs of pharmaceutical companies should be lined up against the wall and... never mind. Let's just say my rant is less effective than it should have been because some machine is trying to correct my vocabulary.
And ok - I can accept that greedhead might not be in the Kindle dictionary. But in a comment about honey-mustard Pringles, I wrote the phrase "reek of self-regret". Reek - perfectly good word, should be in any proper dictionary. Kindle changed it to "feel of self-regret". No, damn it! I said reek, I meant reek! I can accept that perhaps I have an oversized vocabulary. But why is Kindle trying to dumb my comments down?
I know, I should just turn autocorrect off. But it does come in handy - at times. I just wish it would keep its opinions to itself.
Monday, November 20, 2017
We Did It!
Thanks to you lovely readers, I finally hit my bucket list goal of 100 views on a single post here on my humble little blog. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I'm incredibly grateful that you take the time to check in on my natterings. Next goal, 150!
Friday, November 17, 2017
I Don't Always Believe The Women
Why is this becoming a thing? I've heard a number of people saying "If you always believe the women, then you have to believe yadayadayada..." Why, as a female, or a Democrat, or hell, as a human being, am I expected to *always* believe a woman?
I'm especially pissed at the people who are using the phrase as a weapon - the Republicans who are using it to score points, who are using the phrase the same way they would use "nanny nanny boo boo". No. I don't *always* believe the woman. For example, no way do I believe Roy Moore's wife when she says her husband is absolutely beyond reproach and a hero to all Christians. But let's stick to the topic at hand.
I'll even go so far as to acknowledge that there have been some instances of false claims. (The Duke University Lacrosse Team case bothered the hell out of me. So did the woman who claimed some man jumped her and carved up her face with a backwards B for Barack back in 2008.) I don't always believe the women - I believe women who have a credible story. I believe it when multiple women come forward about the same guy. I might even go so far as to say I'll give the benefit of the doubt to women - just because so damned many men have lied.
I also believe that women and men can experience the same event and come out of it with two vastly different interpretations of the truth. A guy can think "I went in for a good-night kiss, she didn't say no, it was a pleasant exchange", while that same woman could be frozen in shock, distressed with the violation of her person, and unable to say anything. Rashomon ain't just a movie, boys and girls...
So, where do we go from here? I honestly don't know - but rather than saying "I always believe the women", how about I'm willing to listen to the women? It's a start.
I'm especially pissed at the people who are using the phrase as a weapon - the Republicans who are using it to score points, who are using the phrase the same way they would use "nanny nanny boo boo". No. I don't *always* believe the woman. For example, no way do I believe Roy Moore's wife when she says her husband is absolutely beyond reproach and a hero to all Christians. But let's stick to the topic at hand.
I'll even go so far as to acknowledge that there have been some instances of false claims. (The Duke University Lacrosse Team case bothered the hell out of me. So did the woman who claimed some man jumped her and carved up her face with a backwards B for Barack back in 2008.) I don't always believe the women - I believe women who have a credible story. I believe it when multiple women come forward about the same guy. I might even go so far as to say I'll give the benefit of the doubt to women - just because so damned many men have lied.
I also believe that women and men can experience the same event and come out of it with two vastly different interpretations of the truth. A guy can think "I went in for a good-night kiss, she didn't say no, it was a pleasant exchange", while that same woman could be frozen in shock, distressed with the violation of her person, and unable to say anything. Rashomon ain't just a movie, boys and girls...
So, where do we go from here? I honestly don't know - but rather than saying "I always believe the women", how about I'm willing to listen to the women? It's a start.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
These Dreams (Go On When I Close My Eyes)
Odd dreams last night - the first one was a really odd 90s inspired fantasy quest, somehow set in the Washington of my youth. The antagonist showed up in Niessan's Mercantile, the big denouement was during the 24th of July celebration (I think the final Maguffin was hidden in the "go fish" booth ran by the local Lions group)... but for some reason, it was starring Alicia Silverstone in full "Clueless" mode, complete with sassy black girl sidekick (not Stacy Dash - even my subconscious doesn't want to give her the work). It was tacky enough that I found myself thinking that my dream mind needed a script rewriter.
I probably should not have challenged my brain, because after the mandatory bathroom break, I slipped back into bed and fell into an Escher painting of a nightmare. I was somehow at work downtown, and the bottom floors of my building started to disintegrate - I could feel the drop as each one gave way. I ran out onto the balcony, and could see buildings all over Portland morphing and disappearing, as the Willamette and Columbia both overflowed their banks and turned Portland into a version of Venice. As my building disappeared, I jumped off the balcony onto the top of a bus heading East, as I knew I had to get home to Roger and Moose - but the bus ended up drowning on the Banfield, with me being the sole survivor (thank God for natural buoyancy...)
It went on from there, but the basic takeaway here? Don't challenge my dream brain - it's got unrevealed depths of oddness.
I probably should not have challenged my brain, because after the mandatory bathroom break, I slipped back into bed and fell into an Escher painting of a nightmare. I was somehow at work downtown, and the bottom floors of my building started to disintegrate - I could feel the drop as each one gave way. I ran out onto the balcony, and could see buildings all over Portland morphing and disappearing, as the Willamette and Columbia both overflowed their banks and turned Portland into a version of Venice. As my building disappeared, I jumped off the balcony onto the top of a bus heading East, as I knew I had to get home to Roger and Moose - but the bus ended up drowning on the Banfield, with me being the sole survivor (thank God for natural buoyancy...)
It went on from there, but the basic takeaway here? Don't challenge my dream brain - it's got unrevealed depths of oddness.
Friday, November 10, 2017
I Was A 14-Year-Old Girl
This has been a really hard season for me. Listening to these old white men doubting and twisting and "But she..."ing and flat out stating that trying to have sex with a 14-year-old girl is more qualifying for the United States Senate than being a Democrat...
But it's helping me to forgive myself for things that happened when I was a child. It's helping me to realize that I didn't do a damn thing to entice Jake to lay down next to me on the floor and press his hard penis against my back. Laying there, frozen in fear, was the most I could have done. It's not my fault I didn't say anything to anyone for far too long
More, it's not my fault that I took a ride from the roller skating dude when I was 14. I wasn't "leading him on", I wasn't being a tease - I was a 14-year-old girl who didn't have a clue. No, he didn't rape me, because I freaked out and started crying when he put his hand on my breasts - but I had somehow managed to work it around in my head to where I felt like it was my fault for being in the car in the first place. Until I could hear it in the language of the news - another 14-year-old girl, groomed by some sick 32-year-old sleaze (heck, it was even the same year - 1979) - I couldn't realize how it was *not my fault*. Hell, I even found myself slipping into the "well, he stopped when she said no" briefly before I realized - she should never have been in that position. He should never had put her in that position. Fuck that, he should never have put ME in that position.
So, what would I offer from all this? I don't know. I'm just realizing how sick I've been. I just know that every time I lance this damn boil, it gets a little smaller... but I am really tired of lancing it.
But it's helping me to forgive myself for things that happened when I was a child. It's helping me to realize that I didn't do a damn thing to entice Jake to lay down next to me on the floor and press his hard penis against my back. Laying there, frozen in fear, was the most I could have done. It's not my fault I didn't say anything to anyone for far too long
More, it's not my fault that I took a ride from the roller skating dude when I was 14. I wasn't "leading him on", I wasn't being a tease - I was a 14-year-old girl who didn't have a clue. No, he didn't rape me, because I freaked out and started crying when he put his hand on my breasts - but I had somehow managed to work it around in my head to where I felt like it was my fault for being in the car in the first place. Until I could hear it in the language of the news - another 14-year-old girl, groomed by some sick 32-year-old sleaze (heck, it was even the same year - 1979) - I couldn't realize how it was *not my fault*. Hell, I even found myself slipping into the "well, he stopped when she said no" briefly before I realized - she should never have been in that position. He should never had put her in that position. Fuck that, he should never have put ME in that position.
So, what would I offer from all this? I don't know. I'm just realizing how sick I've been. I just know that every time I lance this damn boil, it gets a little smaller... but I am really tired of lancing it.
Monday, November 6, 2017
It's quiet. Too quiet.
Roger went back to work today, and after two weeks of having people around all the time, I'm back to my usual hermitage. Part of me is luxuriating in the ability to watch MSNBC completely guiltlessly, but I have to admit, part of me misses the companionship.
It's odd - the older I get, the more introverted I am. In my twenties, I avoided my own company so assiduously that there were nights when I only hit my apartment long enough to change clothes. But then again, back in my twenties, I didn't really know or much like myself, so it's not really surprising that I avoided me as much as possible.
Eventually, I grew into my skin and was ok with occasional solitude - and of course, that's when I fell in love with Roger, and didn't have to be alone anymore (funny how that works - almost as if I had to become a person I could love before someone else could love me.)
Then, of course, Hank came into my life, and with him came pretty much enforced solitude - teleworking is great for getting things done, but it does leave you out in the cold a lot, and then retirement took even that thin fiber lifeline away. Oddly enough, I'm comfortable with solitude now... but I know it's not healthy for me. It's good that I'm going to be re-integrating with the family - but I'm going to enjoy the next couple of months alone while I have it.
It's odd - the older I get, the more introverted I am. In my twenties, I avoided my own company so assiduously that there were nights when I only hit my apartment long enough to change clothes. But then again, back in my twenties, I didn't really know or much like myself, so it's not really surprising that I avoided me as much as possible.
Eventually, I grew into my skin and was ok with occasional solitude - and of course, that's when I fell in love with Roger, and didn't have to be alone anymore (funny how that works - almost as if I had to become a person I could love before someone else could love me.)
Then, of course, Hank came into my life, and with him came pretty much enforced solitude - teleworking is great for getting things done, but it does leave you out in the cold a lot, and then retirement took even that thin fiber lifeline away. Oddly enough, I'm comfortable with solitude now... but I know it's not healthy for me. It's good that I'm going to be re-integrating with the family - but I'm going to enjoy the next couple of months alone while I have it.
Sunday, November 5, 2017
Thoughts on today's massacre
Nearly 5% of a community was wiped out - another 5% maimed - because we can't, as a society, decide that no - some people should not be allowed to have guns. A man who was dishonorably discharged (after serving a year in lockup) because of domestic violence - how on earth did this man get hands on even a cap gun, let alone a weapon of mass destruction (because yes, that's what this was. I don't care if you want to argue that it was only a semi-automatic - if you can kill and maim 10% of a community, it's mass destruction.) There is no "well-ordered militia" that this man should ever have been a part of.
I'm starting to have my doubts about the second amendment as it is - we have a well-ordered militia at this point (heck, we have 4 of them). Maybe we need to re-examine whether or not this is a vestigial amendment - the Constitution's appendix, initially harmless, but currently inflamed and killing us off.
I'm starting to have my doubts about the second amendment as it is - we have a well-ordered militia at this point (heck, we have 4 of them). Maybe we need to re-examine whether or not this is a vestigial amendment - the Constitution's appendix, initially harmless, but currently inflamed and killing us off.
Saturday, November 4, 2017
Moving Forward - oh, god, what have I done?
We met with Kerin yesterday, and by the end of the hour, she had me convinced that we needed to re-do Roger's bathroom and completely renovate our kitchen in order to sell the house. Admittedly, I've got the world's smallest kitchen, but I still prefer my solution of advertise the house via Grub-Hub and tap into the population that has delivery places on speed-dial and don't care about the kitchen. We'll see how it goes...
I'm still recovering from the plague that I picked up in Utah - coughing up a lung every hour, more mucus produced than any body should be able to hold, sounding like Lauren Bacall on a bender - so just talking managed to exhaust me, but as long as my primary capacity in all this is going to be to write the checks, I think we'll still get through it with our sanity intact.
I'm still recovering from the plague that I picked up in Utah - coughing up a lung every hour, more mucus produced than any body should be able to hold, sounding like Lauren Bacall on a bender - so just talking managed to exhaust me, but as long as my primary capacity in all this is going to be to write the checks, I think we'll still get through it with our sanity intact.
Thursday, November 2, 2017
Blogging November, Day 2 - Notes from the Road
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| Admittedly, the view was worth the drive |
Oregon rest areas are amazing - clean, well-lit, set up for handicapped people with wide stalls and plumbing that makes logistical sense. Dead Man's Lake even went so far as to make sure that the automated water in the sinks is a lovely temperature, just right for hand cleansing. Utah rest stops... trust me, use the restroom at the Maverick.
The days go a lot quicker when you listen to the 70s station than when you listen to MSNBC on Sirius. One of the days we were traveling was Mueller Monday - it was fascinating, but I never want to hear about Manafort's rugs again.
The second day afterwards, your body will feel worse than during the actual traveling. (Or that may just be another function of the plague I picked up in Utah - I had forgotten that small children are disease vectors par excellance.)
Going from over 6K feet above sea level down to 52 feet above sea level, your ears pop. A lot. Chew gum.
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
Contrast and Compare
Just a quick one today - There's a number of contrasts between my current life and where I'm heading, but this one seemed like a quick and dirty way to show the absolute differences. This is a picture of my current back yard. It's lovely, but a bit of a pocket Venus:
This is going to be my back yard. All 30 acres of it.
Both of these pictures were taken from the back porch. It's going to be a bit of an adjustment.
This is going to be my back yard. All 30 acres of it.
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| Yes, there's a rusted out old truck in there somewhere. |
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
New Experience for Moose
So... I decided that since I live in the land of legal weed, and I've been wanting to see the effects anyway, Moose could be my test subject. (I would feel guilty about this, but check out the rest of the story.) Daniel picked me up a bottle of Fairwinds Tincture Companion (it's bacon flavored CBD oil). I was worried about his recent rejection of meds, and trying to figure out how to get him to take it, but the minute Daniel brought in the box, Moose started sniffing it like it was a BarkBox, wagging his tail hard enough to set off a small cyclone in the living room, and then he started licking the box. I opened it up, got out the bottle (with the boy jonesing hard all the while), put a couple of drops in my hand, and he licked it up out of my hand - and kept licking, and licking, and licking... It said on the website that it might take a couple of hours to kick in, but Moose is currently as mellow as I've seen him. I was wondering about the munchies, but he seems content to just lay in Mama's lap and contemplate the universe. I think this might work!
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