Context: Mass shooting at a church in Texas; preliminary reports of 27 dead (unconfirmed as of this writing). Also: this is NOT how I imagined the return to this blog. #OhFuckingWellY’all. On Facebook, I posted a link to Moms Demand Action: https://momsdemandaction.org/about/ along with an explanation about why I did. It goes like this: - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I just joined. I hope you do too. I am not religious IN THE LEAST and generally classify myself as rabidly atheist, but I understand that most humans are not like this and find comfort, guidance and community in churches. (Granted, churches and religions can be hugely problematic. That’s another debate for another day. Today, I find myself wanting to defend those who need them.) What it boils down to for me, is that I find preying upon defenseless, innocent people — whether they are in churches or in schools or ...
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Onward
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Well, it has been a mighty long time since I posted anything at all to this blog and I am thinking about closing it down permanently (or archiving it, at least...), since most of its content has to do with a chapter of my life that is, itself, in the process of closing down. Having survived divorce (so far), I now find myself stumbling (awkwardly, like an overgrown teenager) into the next (unexpectedly wonderful) adventure. It seems fitting, somehow, that the adventure documented through this blog should have a formal ending. And so, I suppose, this is it: The End. But, of course, to badly paraphrase: "the end is only the beginning", "where a door closes, a window opens", etc., etc. As I fumble forward -- starting new things, starting over, moving on -- and the new adventure begins, a new blog to document it all seems to be in order. So -- stay tuned! I will link here to the new thing, once its plot becomes clearer and I learn how to write the new story. .
Alarm Bells
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I hate it when there are alarm bells going off in my brain about someone and I can't quite place why or what the problem is, or therefore, and perhaps most important, what the hell I should do about it. I have somehow managed to become entrenched in such a situation and, if you hadn't guessed, am failing to manage to extricate myself. [Insert disgruntled emoticons here...] These are the details, without going into... overmuch detail. (erm... ha.) I have this "friend"... OK, "acquaintance" would be much more congruent with reality, but I think she considers me to be in her "friend" category as she probably considers everyone she's known for more than 5 minutes to be a "friend". (Yes. One of those.) I met her through work and got sucked into an outside work thing that she's doing and.... well.... I want out, because she's actually really fucking crazy. Worse, in a way, she's supposed to be teaching me something -- something ...
Space
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I like my space. I like it red and dark, quiet, because there is no one else here to speak, loud, because I have the music up as far as it will go, messy, because my children have been here, clean, because they've gone again. I like the way the stain on the bookcases I bought matches the stain of the wood on the floors. I like the way my books look when they're out of their boxes. I like the things I nailed to the walls wherever I wanted to without having to ask anybody if it was OK to put them there. I like having no TV and a good espresso machine and excellent beer and my clothes put away. I like that I fixed the doorbell by myself and rearranged the den four times before I was happy with it. I like that I'm here by myself but not lonely. I like it a lot. .
Sorrow
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Someone sent me a thing Ann Landers said -- about people who drown their sorrows forgetting that sorrow knows how to swim. It made me laugh. Yeah, I know. It wasn't meant to. But I'm a bitchin' swimmer. Way better than sorrow ever hoped to be. Way better. No, seriously. I am. I get suffering. I've been there: 4th grade: All the way home (I was a walker), some jackass and his buddy making machine gun sounds at me, because they found out my family was German. (I had no idea what the hell they were doing or why, but for the very first time, I understood that being German wasn't the awesomest thing ever.) 7th grade: Gym class. Er...I don't actually need to go into detail, right? 9th grade: Another jackass, a different jackass from the 4th grade jackass (I assume), this one spit on me. Other jackasses called me names for no reason (well, other than I wasn't tall and blond and beautiful) or felt free to call out insults about what I was wearing or had done to ...
Dissolution
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I suppose I should have seen this coming. I'm a loner. Always have been. Unlike most people, it isn't actually possible for me to have more than one or two good friends at a time. I just can't manage it. I need to be alone, because it makes me quite insane, if I am forced not to be. So that's the good part of divorce. I will get the alone time on a regular basis, whether I need it that week or not. The rest of it, at this point, however, is a big ball of pain and failure. The failure, in the end, is the worst part for me. I don't fail at things. Ever. And to have failed at this -- arguably one of the most important bits of one's life -- is inexcusable, abominable, and so completely, fucking frustrating , that I don't even have the words really. The pain, on the other hand, I can deal with. If you've ever read Dune , you'll remember the "litany agaist fear". I don't remember the exact words (and I can't find my fucking book to loo...