At Least My Weird Is Universal?

Yet another way in which I am not a normal woman popped up in the last week. Yes, I am pretty much a weirdo across all genres. Where's my girl scout* badge for THAT?? 

Over the holidays (a word which should be said quietly with a reverent "thank the Gods for them, thank the Gods they're over" possibly with some salt thrown over a shoulder for good measure, or some incense... or an exorcism) more than one relative of mine said some version of the following: 

"You have the weirdest divorce I've ever seen." 

I suppose it IS pretty weird compared to the divorce attorney commercials on the local "rock" station that promise (in a charming Southern accent**) to "protect men's assets and his ability to provide for his kids", or reality TV divorces that seem more like a Jerry Springer episode drawn out for eight thousand years of shitty "entertainment" ages in the media. 

There have been "friends" in both our lives since we separated who try desperately to convince us the other is going to make life hell, or take everything, or destroy the other person. On one hand, I pity the fuck out of those people. Really: the best they can do to support a friend going through a painful breakup is fill their mind with imagined threats? 

On the other hand, their idea that a relationship has to sour over STUFF is disgusting to me. Just...disgusting. 

Sigh. 

The holidays themselves had some hard moments for me: winter solstice/Christmas/New Years is a natural time to reflect anyway, and there are things about him and us that I miss terribly. I expect I will always miss those things, and you know what? I SHOULD miss them. I lived with my to-be-ex-husband for twelve years. I have loved him for almost fifteen. Why would us divorcing make me suddenly hate him or not want the best for him? What an utterly asinine concept.  

Yup, I recognize this makes me uncommon compared to the commonly-held stereotypes about splitting up. Is it really so awful to agree as a couple that regardless of our relationship status, deep down we still care about each other and don't want to see each other suffer more? 

Hmm. Maybe my understanding but not empathizing with WHY people think it's weird is exactly what makes me weird. Honestly, I don't get it. But when it comes down to brass tacks (a phrase that baffles me because OW)...I don't much care, either. My own brand of easy-going mixed with stubborn ass makes the whole split pretty simple: I loved before, of course I still love. Others' discomfort with my loving AND divorcing isn't really my concern. 

His and my well-being is my concern.

Things were done by both of us: we were together a long time, hurts happened. So did joys, mistakes, vacations, fights, make-ups, support, celebrations, and a couple dogs. I still hold to my original post about our separation last spring: badmouthing my ex-husband will earn you instant fuck-off points, and you'll slide down my "I respect you" scale pretty fast. 

Why? 

Because ex-husband doesn't equal ex-friend, much less enemy. I'm lucky to have had a decade with him in my life as a husband. I learned a lot about him, myself, and about what I think is really important in relationships. The end of our marriage doesn't change those things, and I intend to keep him in my life as my friend as long as he'd like me there. 

*Never was a girl scout, so maybe there IS a badge for that?? If so, can I get one honorarily with my next shipment of Thin Mints, please? 

**So seriously, is that accent fake to bring out "good ol' Southern family values" in those stupid commercials? 

Random Weird and Adolescent Humor

I have no point in this post, other than to share a thing or five I noticed today that weirded me out.


First, let's talk about sperm whales. Because the tale of the Essex is now in theaters and of course the whale is the villain. My thoughts about the story of the Essex aren't about whale rights or whaling or Moby Dick...


No, I was struck by the utter ridiculousness of the name.


What the fuck. I mean, really, what the actual fuck?


What dumbass decided a sea creature bigger than the average ship looked/sounded (let's not go into the other senses, shall we?) like SPERM* of all things? I have absolutely no decent reason for why this plagued my brainpan today, but it did, and I had to find out. Thankfully, Google is there to help with burning questions about male ejaculate, even as pertains to whale names.


VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: when Googling, be certain you include "whale" in the description. Even so, it's better not to Google at work. Learn from my mistakes, and let's all hope I'm not fired, ok?



*As it turns out, whalers really did think the whale's forehead was full of sperm. In reality, it's filled with some weird waxy substance that probably looks ridiculously gross.


Moving on.


Groupon...which is not quite as random a transition as it seems. I get email ads from them regularly, so while I was re-Googling sperm whales on my phone (and thus avoiding the potential firing offense of search results for "sperm" anything) I got mail. It makes sense to me.


But really, there are things I find baffling to sell at their discounts. Such as:


Driving a tank - advertised at 50% off, which I assume means 50% off the price, not that you get to drive 50% of the tank. Driving 50% of a tank seems...unbalanced, somehow, doesn't it?


Boudoir Photography - OBVIOUSLY discounted because there's no amount of airbrushing or photo-shopping that would make me look anywhere close to the mannequin Barbie doll Victoria's secret model in the ad pics. And truly, getting into some of those positions seems dangerous as hell...how would I go back to work if my leg gets stuck...never mind.


Acupuncture - Because, for anything remotely medical OF COURSE I feel comfortable with the bottom of the barrel pricing.


Botox - WHAT THE HELL?? If you're going to inject botulism into your FACE, do you really want the bargain basement place to do it?


Breast Implants* - See Botulism botox injections...bargain basement boobies. REALLY??


*I am not kidding. I have indeed seen implants and other plastic surgery listed on Groupon.

ADVENTURE is a Double-Edged Word

I haven't blogged much lately: truth be told I've been fighting off a depression of sorts for all of November. Most days it's been hard to muster the energy to be pleasant at work, so I haven't written much at all. 

That's not a request for attention: I get these once or twice a year, and I know what to do. I don't get suicidal: I get numb, as though I'm watching life go by from outside a frosty window or from beneath an iced over lake. Everything seems two steps removed from positively affecting me (although my internal demons are especially loud). 

It fixes itself with a bit of time and rest: I just have to wait it out and remember The Bloggess's mantra: depression lies. The most terrifying part is waiting for human-like feelings to come back (because what if they don't?). 

But because the Jess's-patience-bucket is full-to-overflowing with no more room for stupid, I withdraw from most peopleing time while I'm in the middle of this bullshit. 

Holidays, however, wait for no demons. 

This was the first year in 14 that I was uncoupled for Thanksgiving, because separated. I expect Christmas will be equally...different. And so, instead of hanging around for four days with the dogs watching bad TV, I went to the farm outside of Cloquet. Yes, the same Cloquet where Jessica Lange was born. 

No, I'm not named after her. 

Amusingly, Blogger's spellchecker doesn't recognize Cloquet. Not terribly surprising. 

The farm is a bit of land near a river where my Grandma, aunt, her partner, and the real owners (horses, ponies, dogs, cats, guineas, chickens, and now two skunk kits) live. After all, we're all on their schedules, and rightly so. The skunk kits are a stinky new addition to the barn, and likely won't be a permanent one. 

I've added a couple of pictures from the weekend's shenanigans...which helped in the feeling-sorta-human department: 

Found in the local grocery store next to "normal" cereal. Because in northern Minnesota, regularity is apparently so important there's special poop-inducing granola JUST FOR WEIRDOS:

SO many captions possible here, I just can't choose. 

I'm now 100% convinced the corners of the basement on the farm hide something vampiric. There isn't enough room to store a coven of human-sized vampires, but there's DEFINITELY room for gnome or brownie-sized bloodsuckers.

Since I found this on the windowsill, I'm guessing sun-aged blood is tastier?

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS*? IS THIS BLOOD?
IS THERE A SECRET STASH OF VAMPIRES AT THE FARM?

*(Grandma swears it's molasses...I did NOT smell or taste to be sure. 

Most people do the dishes looking out the window at the yard, the woods, into the neighbor's house (awkward)...

Grandma watches a spider protect the kitchen by catching ALL THE THINGS. I come by my weirdness naturally, people.

Charlotte, watching over the sink. 

OH.

On a different note, I discovered my renters (I don't know which ones) were apparently doing some sort of demonic rituals in my house while I was in Texas. They left this shit behind, up against the wall in the far corner of the top shelf in the laundry room. I think it's posessed.

It will be going to someone else for Christmas.

Fuck you, former renters.
No really. Fuck you and your creepy clown spy. 

 Evil disapproves*

Exactly. 

*Evil is at a stage where the word "no" said NEAR her creates insta-crying. As discovered when this picture was taken, after the N-word was uttered in casual conversation in her vicinity. It's adorable and hilarious, and laughing ONLY MAKES HER ANGRIER.