tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53305842024-03-13T09:04:30.445-05:00No Pithy PhraseIs my freak flag upside down again?Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.comBlogger471125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-91973019952865596312020-03-26T12:42:00.002-05:002020-03-26T12:42:12.171-05:00A Transition - No Pithy Phrase Is MovingSo a couple of years ago I started a blog on Wordpress for writing, because Wordpress has more up to date functionality and is in many ways easier to use.<br />
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I intended to use that one for "professional" writing things and this one for personal, but in the last two years I've discovered a couple of things.<br />
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1) I don't do well at "professional" website writing...it ends up way too generic and I feel like it's boring, therefore it's probably pretty boring to read. Gross. No.<br />
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2) I'm too old and busy to hide the freak flag. Fuck that.<br />
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I exported all of THIS blog this afternoon and uploaded it to my other one, which will be quickly renamed <a href="http://jessicasettergren.com/" target="_blank">No Pithy Phrase</a> as well, but the address is way easier: http://jessicasettergren.com.<br />
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This is my last post on Blogger, so if you follow me here and want to keep up with my weirdo blog stuff, please come on over to the insanity at the new address. If you've had enough, hey, I totally get it and thanks for playing.<br />
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I'll likely leave this site as is for a while and I haven't deleted any of the content, just migrated it over.<br />
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<br />Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-43352164094944168212020-03-09T13:53:00.001-05:002020-03-09T17:39:28.716-05:00The 1/2 Way Update: I might need Ripley to come to chemo. Today I will have chemo infusion 8 of 16, which means I'll officially hit my 1/2 done mark at 4:30 or so.<br />
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Fun facts about <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paclitaxel" target="_blank">Taxol/paclitaxil</a>.<br />
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It was derived from the Pacific Yew tree in the late 60's/early 70's. Did you know yew is one of the trees that is universally fatally toxic? Yeah...even birds have to be careful not to swallow the seeds: the only non-toxic bit is the little jelly around seeds. Yep. I'm not kidding when I say I'm voluntarily poisoning myself every week.<br />
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Important note: the Pacific Yew is now endangered. Yes, directly because of cancer: it took a while for scientists to be able to synthesize the drug, and since it's the bark that's used to make Taxol and skinning a tree is pretty much as fatal as skinning anything else, I'm EXTREMELY aware of the sacrifices made to keep my cancerous ass alive. Or, cancerous boob, I suppose. Thankfully, it's now semi-synthesized.<br />
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Much of the negative response during infusion (oh, and I have some), is because it's essentially plant based histamine response. Two very important things to note from that sentence.<br />
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First, for all the anti-chemicals-in-anything folks who might read this: PLANT BASED ALL NATURAL DOESN'T MEAN IT'S GOOD FOR YOU. Hi, fatally poisonous plant without processing, and guess what? Still fatally poisonous. Taxol (like all chemo infusion drugs) is specifically measured out in doses based on my weight and health status, so it's a new personalized dose every time and monitored closely in case breaks/changes are needed. I'm all about natural remedies to support science, essential oils and stuff help mitigate some side effects. I wouldn't recommend chewing yew bard because it's "more natural" than Taxol...although I suppose that's a way to Darwin your way out of worrying about cancer anymore.<br />
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Second: I have hay fever already. So...I am pumped full of Benadryl and steroids before treatment (the Benadryl is part of the pre-treatment infusion bag of tricks, along with enough saline that I'm glad my IV has wheels for bathroom breaks). Unfortunately, MY during-infusion reaction is really intense sternum and hip bone pain, and low back muscle pain. SINCE WHEN IS ALLERGIC RESPONSE BONE AND MUSCLE PAIN? Luckily, it only lasts 8 minutes (last week Mom timed it, since she's a nurse and would be paying attention to those things) and it's not actually bad enough to stop or delay treatment. Honestly, I'd rather not stop or delay...even 8 more weeks is a long time to look at for me right now. I'm fucking tired.<br />
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I'm not joking you guys...the sternum pain gives me a serious "fuck, I really AM going to die an alien host" moment every week. (I considered adding an <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090605/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1" target="_blank">Aliens </a></i>video here, but that's mean because it's a gross video and you're welcome.) Also I'm pretty glad that hasn't happened yet, because have you EVER seen a huge room of people with wheelie IV stands try to outrun anything? Ok, neither have I, but I can imagine it, and let me tell you that'd be a huge mess all around. Plus nobody has any energy in that room. I wonder if cancer and chemo is a transferable poison to aliens.<br />
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Anyway, that went off the rails a bit. I'm off to get my drugs in, and hope there's no secret sneaky creatures in my chest today.<br />
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8 more after today.<br />
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<i>Updated because I put the damn date in instead of the actual number...today is the 9th and I had my 8th infusion, which means I have 8 left. Good lord...I blame chemo brain. </i>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-38217334490035370382020-02-24T12:21:00.000-06:002020-02-24T12:21:16.489-06:00The End of the Red Devil and Other Random EventsA couple of weeks ago I had the last infusion of AC and last week I started my 12 weeks of Taxol. Doxorubicin (the A of the AC...don't ask me why, medical jargon makes zero sense to me most of the time) is the one often called the Red Devil, because it has dangerous side effects and has to be administered by the nurse directly into the port, vs through an IV drip. I'm thoroughly happy to be done with them: the last recovery period was longest so far (I wasn't well from Friday after chemo through Thursday the following week). <div>
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But I had a week in between and I almost felt like a normal human for a bit! Took my little bald brainpan on holiday over Valentine's day to Duluth. I took pictures of the lake for the Banshee book, toured Glensheen for the first time (yes, I know...I grew up in Duluth and should've been there a lot over the years, but I never made it), had a margarita. The updates about the Banshee book will likely end up on my other blog, since it's writing related, but suffice to say I found an excellent book on the hauntings of Lake Superior, which included some Anishinaabe stories suspiciously close to dryads and mermaids. I am STOKED: I don't even have to explain in the novel why there are supernatural things living in/around the lake...they were already there. Mwahahaha. </div>
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Yes, I'm a wild and exciting person.<br /><div>
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Then I got ready for my last 3 months of chemo. So this stuff isn't supposed to be as bad: it's a lower dosage, the side effects don't generally include nausea, and over the next month or two I'm supposed to actually feel better as the AC effects wear off completely. Of course, Taxol has its own set of indignities. </div>
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1) I have to take 5 steroid pills 12 hours before treatment, and 5 MORE 6 hours before, because there can be unpleasant side effects during infusion. If you don't know, that's a buttload of steroids. Turns out I have no problem sleeping with all those steroids overnight, but I may need to pull out my stupid scuba snorkel. Night sweats are no joke, and if THAT'S what hot flashes are like I might as well just invest in a swimming pool bed now. What the actual hell. Luckily I only have to do this on the night before/day of treatment. Last week my Nurse Practitioner at Oncology said I'm not allowed to have my IV outside in my underwear. Mean. </div>
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On the other hand, I AM MOTIVATED this morning.</div>
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2) The nurses give you a big dose of Benadryl as one of the pre-infusion meds. Benadryl makes me sleepy. This is important: </div>
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3) They also put a customer-service bell (the sort you'd see on a store counter) to hit if I start to feel any sort of weirdness during my IV drip. Remember how they gave me a big dose of knock-out-allergy-med first? So...hopefully if I'm asleep and my face swells up whomever is with me can hit the bell. </div>
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4) Turns out muscle aches are the most painful side effect this time (well, so far). The rest of the neuropathy (tingling and numbness in hands/feet) is cumulative...I hope the muscle/joint aches aren't, because Thursday last week I couldn't really get out of bed or sleep well: too many evil chemo-trolls beating my legs with big sticks. </div>
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5) Unfortunately, I continue to be a fucking weirdo with chemo. I felt mostly fine over the weekend, much better than I did the weekend after AC treatments, but Friday night while at a friend's for dinner I had some sort of weird pass-out-type episodes, the second of which had me waking up on their kitchen floor with upset people and dogs and a 911 call. Yeah. I made it to 42 before I had to be carried out of someone's house by paramedics and cops (good for them for not dropping my big ass) and take a ridiculously expensive ride in an ambulance. 100% do not recommend. Especially since the ER said all my tests are fine and they have no idea why it happened (and therefore, I have no way to know if it'll happen again). </div>
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I'm fine now, there were a couple of warning signs I'm watching out for, and I have an appointment with Oncology before treatment today to find out if anything changes, but I'd like to say THIS WAS NOT ON THE GODDAMNED LIST OF SIDE EFFECTS. What the hell...somebody tell my brainpan that I'm supposed to follow the damn program like every other good little breast cancer patient. No more new bullshit: I have books to finish. </div>
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It's awfully hot in here...can I do treatment in my underwear in the parking lot today? </div>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-7240910847083394282020-01-21T14:01:00.005-06:002020-01-21T14:01:51.159-06:00Round 3 - Naps and Emergency Rooms and Where's My Bubble.I haven't been around much since the holidays. To be fair, I haven't been around much in real life, either. But since people are starting to ask, I thought I'd give an update (because honestly, I'm fucking tired and I don't respond to most calls or texts or messages with anything but "ok" right now). This post is not edited for grossness: feel free to stop here with the assurance that after round 4 I should be feeling more like a human AND be less dangerously immuno-compromised.<br />
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So I've been sick with some ridiculously stupid virus since December 12th. Normal people get a cold, maybe if they're like me they get a little bronchitis afterward that hangs on an extra week or two, and move on. That is not what happened with me.<br />
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The current drug cocktail of chemo is the harsh sort: it attacks fast growing cells in the body. Let's define fast growing cells: hair. Nails. White blood cells (the little army of infection and virus killers that float along with your blood). So...the super fun poisoning I'm voluntarily doing to my body is effectively killing off my immune system each round, and each round is progressively worse. What does that mean?<br />
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Normal people have a white blood cell count of about 11,000. My white blood cell count yesterday was 800. For reference, I have to have a count of 5400 or higher to have treatment. To be fair, this wouldn't be something I'd notice other than being really fucking tired if they didn't take my blood every time I go to an appointment at Oncology. They're nice vampires, at least. Ultimately, this means 1) I can't see anyone who has even been EXPOSED to any illness. All you folk with adorable little germ spreaders at home are off limits until I'm done with round 4. 2) A fever or chills sends me immediately to the emergency room, do not pass go, do not (as I discovered a couple of weeks ago when the UC nurse said OH NO, we aren't handling that here, go to the ER right now) head to urgent care. 3) I'm tired. Like, nap after I take a shower because it takes too much energy tired, all the time. <br />
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By the weekend after chemo my body is at it's lowest point immunity-wise. By the weekend before the next treatment (that'd be this coming Saturday/Sunday, for those of you keeping count) it's back up to acceptable levels again, thanks to the Neulasta shot I get right along with chemo. Neulasta makes my bones go into PRODUCE ALL THE WHITE BLOOD CELLS RIGHT NOW overdrive, which makes my legs/hips/chest ache, but hey, bone marrow is a good thing. The weekend after chemo is the worst: I'm sick, exhausted, have no appetite, and generally just trying to get through the day. And my feet are sore, like standing on concrete for 15 hours each day sore, for ABSOLUTELY NO REASON AT ALL. It's utterly ridiculous, and terribly annoying.<br />
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On top of all of this, MY cold turned into lying in bed for three days unable to move other than to the bathroom to be sick, followed by a super fun round of bronchitis which also makes me sick, followed most recently by a nasty sinus infection which ALSO makes me sick. Feel free to read sick as vomiting until I'd rather just die, thanks. Unfortunately, it's not chemo-related and anti-nausea meds don't work. A couple of weeks ago I went to the ER because I got so violently ill I scraped up my esophagus and was throwing up blood. FUN. Interestingly, walking into the ER and saying "I'm on chemo and I'm throwing up blood" gets you a room pretty much immediately. I don't recommend. I've lost 30 pounds since December 16th when chemo started. I got a very soft-spoken reprimand from the nutritionist at Oncology today for not having enough calories and I'm told I'm not spoda lose any more weight, please, until treatment is over (1 more round of this, 12 weeks of the next drug...so May). I take more pills in the morning than Grandma right now, and thank all the gods for antibiotics that kill sinus infections.<br />
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Honestly, I've been LUCKY with all of this. I don't have many of the most common awful side effects, and if I hadn't had the death-cold that lasted all the way through I likely would've been mostly ok. But there you go: lost my hair (kept my eyebrows so far: WOOT!), spent the last month on the couch or in bed or throwing up and yell/crying FUCK YOU in the bathroom a lot, watched too much TV, hid from everyone (including my niece and nephews) because I'm now a bubble-girl germaphobe who does NOT want to end up in the hospital.<br />
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But I'm almost done: next Monday is round 4 of 4 for the AC, and then I have a three week break to get my shit together before I start the 12 weeklies. Rumor has it the Taxil is easier on the body overall than the AC I'm on now. I'm hoping I can go back to work in March when that treatment starts, because the side effects are WAY less harsh and I should be more energetic. Taxil also doesn't kill off my immunity, which means I won't be banned from public places or groups anymore...which means I'll likely be more interested in visitors.<br />
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Cancer sucks. Intentionally poisoning my body now that the cancer's gone in hopes it doesn't come back also sucks. I'm supported where I need it, and if I don't answer you directly please don't take it personally. I'm probably napping again.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-76762368096632214772019-12-31T09:59:00.000-06:002019-12-31T09:59:16.475-06:00Chemo is an Interesting Monster - Round 2Yesterday I had my second round of treatment for the two drug cocktail. For people keeping score, I'm now 1/2 way through the first 4 cycles. I'll have an additional 12 of a different drug after these are done. I am tolerating it ok as long as I stay on top of my nausea-med schedule and am very careful about eating on time/sleeping when I need to. Except for this whole immune system thing.<br />
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The following may be TMI, so feel free to stop here with reassurance that as of this morning I still have hair, I'm not horking everywhere, and I'm going to beat this with somewhat less energy/determination than Maggie Smith while she Professor McGonnegal'd during breast cancer chemo, but still, I'll get there. Yes I just made McGonnegal a verb, and why shouldn't she be?<br />
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I went to Round 1 on the 16th with a cold. THE cold everyone else is getting right now, with the cough that lasts a couple of weeks and generally makes life miserable and snotty. The nurses all felt terrible for me as I coughed into a mask while they did the chemo dance. So let's discuss the actual process here.<br />
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<li>weight/BP/temp collected</li>
<li>Remember that port under the skin in my chest I had surgically installed on the 9th? The one where I HORRIFIED my surgeon by casually commenting I'd get an all-over skull tattoo before my hair grows back (to which he visibly recoiled before patting my knee and saying "you do you", and my mom and I cackled like a couple happy witches in the pre-op room)? At chemo, you pick whatever heated reclining chair you prefer out of the 3 areas of chairs, grab a snack and some water, and settle in for a WHILE. Then, the nurse comes to stick an L shaped needle into the port and tape it down, which makes me instantly IV'd.</li>
<li>IV flush. I can taste and smell rubbing alcohol in the back of my throat. Gross. </li>
<li>Port draw. Chemo nurses are very charming, kind vampires who take as many vials of blood as they want, thanks. </li>
<li>Now we start the drugging, but not chemo yet. First, three small syringes of prescription anti-nausea meds. Those stay in my system about 48 hours, so this morning I'm currently on 5 different drugs just to combat nausea. FUN! My mouth is dry. </li>
<li>My treatment currently consists of two different chemotherapy: the first is bright red and comes in 3 big syringes. The nurse has to administer them by hand because each syringe goes in over 10 minutes and if any gets on my skin it's a bad deal. We chat about her kids and how the holidays are going and other random things, then after the third one is in we wait a few minutes with the saline drip. </li>
<li>Please note the saline drip or some other liquid has now been pumping fluids into my central line IV for about an hour straight. </li>
<li>The final round of IV drugs hangs for about an hour. My bladder can NEVER make it that long, but luckily the bathrooms are huge and the IVs are on wheels, so much like the boys in <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120591/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0" target="_blank">Armageddon </a>I can wheelie myself down the hall to pee. Unlike them, I get to be in real clothes and there's no <a href="https://youtu.be/INLo0Zr0_lA" target="_blank">anal probing first</a>. I promise that link is SFW. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go watch <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120591/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0" target="_blank">Armageddon </a>again. </li>
<li>AFTER the chemo is done, I get my alien attachment. Instead of anything icky, it's more like temporary insulin pump that sticks to my belly and waits 27 hours before injecting a booster that helps my bone marrow make more white blood cells. Turns out this one is pretty damned important. </li>
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Remember the cold? So I tolerated round 1 of chemo just fine, didn't have some of the worse side effects that could happen (I knocked on all the wood, really). But I had that stupid cold. Which was fine until Saturday, then it kicked my ass in no uncertain terms. I spent Saturday night until Monday morning in bed, unable to do anything but drink water and throw up and sneeze and cough. I lost 18lbs. I went in for chest x-rays on Monday last week to check for pneumonia - nope, just bronchitis. "Just" bronchitis. So last week while Christmas was sort of happening I was drugged to the teeth with a steroid, big time cough syrup, antibiotics, and an inhaler. And orders to go directly to the ER if I get a temperature at all. Fun times. Remember how Chemotherapy is intended to kill rapidly-growing cells (this is why hair loss is a side effect - it can't distinguish which KIND of fast-growing cells)? That means white blood cells too...which make up the majority of your immune system and are made in bone marrow. One week after chemo, Oncology does labs again to check how low my immune system dropped because that gives us a baseline. Mine was frighteningly low...so I've been mostly hermiting or wearing a mask when I'm out in public because I can't get strep. I can't get the flu. I can't get whatever next cold is coming around...I don't want a repeat of that weekend before Christmas.<br />
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TODAY is the day after treatment 2, and I mostly feel good. I figure the cough will stick around a while yet but I seem to be over the rest, and the worst thing I'm dealing with today is random tiredness. Eating breakfast (so I can take pills) required a 20 minute nap afterward. Walking up the stairs to login at work took a few minutes of pause at the top. Invalid-ness sucks when you're used to doing your own thing, I'm not gonna lie. But this is temporary, and I'm 1/2 way through my first 4 cycles. Tonight my family is doing Christmas dinner and presents and stuff (we had important people out of town last week) and I'm excited I'll be able to taste fancy food...and see what chemo makes weird.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-55894079134579397532019-11-29T17:51:00.000-06:002019-11-29T17:51:17.958-06:00A Booby PrizeWednesday was a day of doctors. I suppose I should be getting used to that, but so far I haven't. My surgical follow up was exactly as planned, except for getting a LOOK and a very snarky "and now you're sore, AREN'T YOU" comment from the surgeon for shoveling that morning. Yeah yeah. Lesson learned. Sadly, even though I'm healing fine and all my franken-ness is now stitch-free, the inside isn't fully healed (hence the chastisement for shoveling, because heavy lifting/labor could tear scar tissue and cause issues). Therefore, he said wait until after the new year to go back to kickboxing. This was Wednesday morning, before that last test came back and before I met my Oncologist. We'll get back to that in a minute.<br />
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Related: a friend of mine apparently objects to "Frankenboob" not because it's rude, nor because it's inaccurate (after all, Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster), but because it does't "roll off the tongue in a poetic way". I have the best mental image of him testing, out loud, each different technical and slang term for every part of a breast to find the right combo(he assures me that's exactly what happened while stuck in traffic the other day). "Frankenboob" will now be "<b><i>Frankenknocker</i></b>". FK for short, which works for me on multiple levels. <br />
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It DOES sounds more lyrical. I have no argument.<br />
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Wednesday afternoon I met my team at MN Oncology. It's ridiculous that FK has a team.<br />
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My Oncologist is also very kind and direct, a quality I appreciate since she had less than stellar news. The two tumors I had removed were sent to a lab in California for something called an Oncotype test. Essentially it's a genetic test done on the tumor itself, which is then plugged into a statistical database that's been built over however many decades of cancer research of my particular type to spit out a percentage of likelihood my cancer would come back anywhere in the body. The tumor originally found on my mammogram isn't a big deal: it's grade 1 (slow growing, not aggressive). That littler one though, that's the mean one. Grade 3 is more aggressive: my risk factor is too high.<br />
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So. I will have a port put into my chest sometime next week and get an electrocardiogram on my heart sometime in the next two weeks (did you know one of the awesome side effects for chemo can be heart damage? I didn't either.) and on the 16th I'll start five months of chemo (assuming, of course, that everything goes according to plan, which honestly hasn't happened since I went in for a routine mammogram). Radiation will start after chemo. There isn't currently any detectable cancer in my body, just to be clear: the intent of this round of treatment is to kill anything that's too small to detect so it doesn't come back anywhere else (that's what metastatic means - breast cancer with a wandering streak).<br />
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There's a door prize for getting told you're starting chemo in a couple of weeks. A nurse's assistant came in to give me a large 3 ring binder full of information, a nice clear list of which drugs are administered when, the side effects, and when I should call the office if side effects are bad. Along with the binder she awkwardly handed me a thermometer, like she KNEW it's ridiculous. But since three different kinds of fun poison will be dribbled in the port (each session will be a couple hours) and the drugs will kill off good cells and bad ones, my immune system will be sad and slow. Monitoring for fever will be a thing, and apparently adults don't usually have a thermometer at home, so they give everyone one when treatment starts.<br />
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Aren't I just a barrel of fun these days? Yeah, I think so too.<br />
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Kickboxing is off until next fall at the earliest (I've sadly already texted the head instructor in Burnsville to ask if we can put my membership on hold or if I should just start over, because it's too expensive to just let it sit and bill every month for that long). Honestly I'm pretty pissed about that.<br />
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I won't be able to shovel my own driveway this winter after all (looking into snow removal services now). I'm pissed about that too, for the expense and the inconvenience. However, I may not be so pissed about it when I don't have to bundle up and slide down my driveway. We'll see.<br />
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The rest I don't know about yet. Not everyone has the same side effects, but I plan for the worst and hope for better. Christmas/Yule stuff will depend entirely on how I react to treatment, which is every other week starting the 16th for two months, then weekly for three more months.<br />
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The big question here is will I rock the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Telly_Savalas" target="_blank">Telly Savalas</a> look, or will I wig out...I don't know that yet either.<br />
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I suppose I could cancel the appointment I have for a haircut in December, though.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-71147879490785777212019-11-26T13:38:00.001-06:002019-11-26T13:38:34.851-06:00Tiny Indignities: Brought to You by FrankenboobFirst, thank you. To everyone who has been so damn supportive and kind (and patient!) please know I appreciate it all.<br />
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Second, I'm ok. My awesome surgeon (who was VERY excited and happy in the pre-op room...something that I considered weird until I realized I WANT a surgeon who's passionate about his job) got it all. Both Francis and his sidekick have clear margins, which means the cancer hasn't spread outside the bits he cut out. My lymph node was also clear, which is a huge deal. Early detection, people. I'm a lucky girl.<br />
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Things are healing, I'm down to very occasional ice packs and ibuprofen, and I still can't do a hell of a lot (which makes me look at my kickboxing/MMA uniform bag AND, oddly enough, the remaining leaves in the back yard, with great sadness). I still don't know for certain about chemo. I don't see anyone for radiation until next Tuesday, so I don't exactly know when that'll start, but I suspect not until all my stitches are dissolved.<br />
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Tomorrow is my 2 week surgical follow up, although technically yesterday was the actual 2 week mark. Tomorrow is also my Oncology consult, because one of the door prizes for cancer is getting your very own specialty doc for pretty much forever.<br />
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I'm going through the intake paperwork for the Oncologist and am struck by the frank end-of-life preference questions. <i>Is it important to me to be able to feed myself. Is it important to me that my doctor tell me when I'll die. Is it important for me to not be a burden on my family/loved ones</i>. Yeah. Morbid, I know, but here's the deal: Cancer is a disease that just progressively strips a person's dignity away, little bites at a time. I have a few (since the MRI boob-box debacle):<br />
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<li>For a few hours on surgery day I was a radioactive superhero. Or at least Frankenboob was. Maybe not a superhero...could be the Hulk.Anyway. I'm not as well read on gamma rays vs radioactive isotopes or whatever the hell was in those two little alien tracking devices the inserted into my breast that morning. All I know is after each one the nurse had to run a Geiger counter or something over me,which screamed (not me, the instrument) in the appropriate places. So I'm lying on a hospital bed in a darkened room with one boob just hanging out in the air for the doctor, nurse, and ultrasound tech (after he's stuck a needle in there twice...yep, I watched on the ultrasound machine) and the nurse had to wave a screaming wand over it. I mean, <b>what better way to start my day?</b></li>
<li>After pre-op excitement (including yet another nurse who can't find my veins, resulting in multiple sticks and a delay in letting my peeps into the pre-op room to hang until I went to the OR), a 10 year old anesthesiologist stopped by. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doogie_Howser,_M.D." target="_blank">Doogie Howser</a> is alive and administering Propofol and Fentanyl, you guys, and clearly I'm old. But hey, I got to walk in my breezy backless surgery gown and hot purple socks to the OR! </li>
<li>Sorry kids, I didn't do or say anything weird in recovery that I know of. And the nurse isn't telling. She did say I have pretty eyes. I think. I was busy being proud I didn't have any pee-my-pants accidents in surgery (yes I'm certain: I had underwear on through surgery and they were still there when I got out). </li>
<li>It took me three days (probably until the Propofol was mostly worn off) to realize SOMEONE had to hold me up in and wrap the mile long ace bandage around my boobs. I'm sure that was SUPER fun. I wonder if they dropped me...my feet hung off the table in the operating room, and that table isn't very wide.</li>
<li>I can't wear deodorant until the stitches in my armpit have fully dissolved and the steri strips fall off and the doctor says it's ok. </li>
<ol>
<li>Related: I have discovered that I am not a hippie. I would like my razor and deodorant back immediately, please. (Good Goddess, please for the sake of all our noses...give me back my deodorant.)</li>
</ol>
<li>Hydrocodone prescriptions (that's Vicodin, if you aren't up on your opioid addiction literature) come with a stool softener. I'm suddenly 8,000 years old. </li>
<li>Hydrocodone prescriptions apparently also come with a warning letter from the pharmacy. It arrived, detailing the "dangers of opioids" TWO WEEKS after I was done with the prescription. Helpful. </li>
<li>Side effects of future treatments will be...well, they should be less awful than chemo, but less fun than getting a cavity drilled. </li>
</ol>
We'll see after tomorrow...because maybe the biggest indignity is not knowing. Everything happens in increments, so there's an overall grieving process of what life was going to be like BC (before cancer) vs what it will be like AC (after cancer), PLUS a series of small stabs of worry every time a new test is run "just to confirm". My recent history with "just to confirm nothing's wrong" tests hasn't been great. <div>
<br /></div>
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I've filled out the Oncology form. I'm ready for tomorrow's appointments...dear MN: please go for the 1" snowfall tonight, not the 78" option, ok? I don't want to leave at 6am for my 9:30am appointment...and I need my surgeon to say I can deodorize again. <div>
<br />Also, since I included boobs AND drugs in this post, HI NSA! </div>
</div>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-71249094116206664742019-11-10T20:22:00.002-06:002019-11-10T20:22:10.034-06:00Bye Francis (This post is not safe for work or pretty much any other respectable sensibility.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I've started and deleted this post approximately 700 bazillion times in the past few weeks, as doctors have poked and prodded (oops, sorry about that second stick, the one that went into the muscle!) and set new appointments and "just check to be sure everything is ok" tests have been scheduled and endured. Even now, I've cut 90% of this post, because it's not useful or too angry or too sad, and because it will inevitably be taken to heart by the wrong people, and because I'm <i>tired </i>of the casual solutioners trying to solution shit that doesn't actually help at all. It's amazing how careful I've learned to be in a few weeks about saying the right thing to avoid being inconvenient or making anyone else uncomfortable. </div>
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Example: the <i>Deadpool </i>clip in this post is extremely violent. There. You are warned. </div>
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I'm so goddamned tired of <i>feeling</i>.</div>
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I'm angry as fuck that the rest of my life will have a specter of "what if it's back" every time I go to what used to be a normal checkup. I'm angry I will pretty certainly have to go on a hormone blocker for the next 5-10 years. A demon of a pill with pretty awful side effects that may or may not get me, but will almost assuredly cause early menopause and removes yet more choices I still had about my body and my life. I'm angry and sad that until I know my staging and statistical likelihood of recurrence AFTER I know my treatment plan, I have to recognize that I may not see my niece and nephews graduate. </div>
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I'm anxious and terrified about tomorrow, even though I know every step of what's going to happen. What if they don't get it all? What if the results are worst possible and I have to have chemo or my staging is more immediately bad? What if I pee my pants during surgery? What if I react adversely to the anesthesia? What if I'm one of those creepy people who wake up in the middle of the procedure, paralyzed and feeling EVERYTHING? What if I don't recover fast enough? What if I die on the table? </div>
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Why not put it out of my head and focus on the positive? I suppose in the scheme of things I'm incredibly lucky. I have the same cancer 80% of breast-cancer-havers have. Francis was discovered ridiculously early and his evil, more aggressive sidekick was discovered because I decided the indignities of an MRI aren't as bad as not knowing. My ultrasound tech is an amazing woman who made certain she found the sidekick so we could biopsy it and get that little bastard included in the lumpectomy tomorrow, even though it's 0.6cm. I don't have stage IV double mastectomy 6 months to live cancer: that part my medical team seems quite sure of, and that's unbelievably lucky. </div>
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Yeah. That didn't do shit. Maybe tomorrow night it'll help, or maybe the anesthesia will leave me loopy and tired enough that I don't care. Tonight, when I'm getting ready to take the first of two special-surgery-soap showers and my dog is somewhere else and I'm supposed to sleep (yeah right), positive is worthless. </div>
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I actually want to learn the trick to putting worst case scenarios out of my mind without the benefit of meditation (which I can and DO regularly do). Because that's not how my mind works. </div>
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In order to even set foot in the building, and give up all that control and just let some stranger knock me out and cut me open, I HAVE to decide when I'm capable of deciding and communicating where my boys will go if things went bad. I HAVE to have a letter written and in my desk giving instructions to the few people with keys to my house. Just in case. Is that morbid? Maybe, but my outlook on life has been "prepare for the worst and see what happens" for as long as I can remember.</div>
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It makes me feel slightly better to know I won't leave them to shelters or have any arguing over what happens in my house, because I have so little control over what's going on. I hate it with every breath in this body that betrayed me. </div>
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It's only been, what, 6 weeks? I'm already so fucking tired. </div>
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Angry will get me through, if I can be angry enough to blow terrified and sad aside for a while. </div>
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Carrie Fisher said: <i><b>stay afraid, but do it anyway. </b></i></div>
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So fuck you, Francis. I don't want to be a hero: I just want you both gone. </div>
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/VSjbs109KuM/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/VSjbs109KuM?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-48288065096924835422019-10-22T17:27:00.001-05:002019-10-22T17:27:16.690-05:00An Unexpected Unpleasant Side QuestSo, it's easier to just put this into a blog post than repeat things over and over for peeps who don't know yet. I haven't been around much the past few weeks for writing or anything else (other than horror movies and related distractions) because I'm in the middle of a thing.<br />
<br />
It turns out, finding out I have breast cancer is a cognitive pause in brain function, followed by a weird hotdish of panic, practicality, research, and learning how to just not know what the fuck is going on.<br />
<br />
Get your mammograms, peeps. This is not how I expected to spend my favorite season.<br />
<br />
Facts as of today:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I have "Invasive Ductal Carcinoma" which is the most common (80% of all breast cancers, according to the Komen website) form. It's very small, very early, and wouldn't have been found without going to a routine mammogram. </li>
<li>I've done a couple of tests and have a couple more coming up, but overall the treatment right now is a lumpectomy scheduled for early November, and most likely a round of radiation after. </li>
<li>Final determination for treatment will be decided by the pathology results after surgery, so chemo/hormone therapy could still happen, but as of today not likely. </li>
<li>I am expected to recover fully - this is non-aggressive (Grade 1) and I've never heard "you're young" so often from anyone since I turned 40, but apparently my age and the size/grade make a HUGE difference. </li>
</ul>
This is a shitty path to take, but right now it's just another series of things I have to fit into my schedule. That's not to say it's no big deal: the past couple of weeks have been full of terror, but today is good.<br />
<br />
Today I have a plan.<br />
And I'm convinced by my medical team it'll be ok.<br />
And I need a good name for the tumah (it IS a tumah, and if you haven't seen <i>Kindergarten Cop</i> you're probably too young to read any of this post) so I can say I'm kicking its specific cancerous ass.<br />
<br />
Fucked Up Things I've Discovered (so far):<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>I am WAY TOO TALL for the stupid half-gown shirt things used at the breast center. Sigh. I am not a midriff-baring-shirt person...wtaf. </li>
<li>Everything after the radiologist says "we see something, you need a biopsy asap, how's next Tuesday" sounds like the Peanuts adults mumbling. </li>
<li>Breast biopsy needles look like an ear piercing gun's meaner older sibling, and sound equally as obnoxious. </li>
<li>Breast biopsy procedures look suspiciously like a Xenomorph's second mouth taking super fast tiny Alien bites on the ultrasound machine. <i>WELL OF COURSE I WATCHED IT...do you know me?</i></li>
<li>Breast MRIs are<i style="font-weight: bold;"> significantly more undignified </i>than anything I've done outside a gyno office. Yes, I'm certain my indignity has only just begun, but you know...that was a new one for me. You sort of kneel/lie face down on an unholy offspring of a massage table and udder-milking setup, with all upper body weight on the sternum and ribcage between/under the boobs, because they have to hang into boxes for the scans. There is no full breath to be had (just re-reading that sentence made me take a HUGE breath in), and the 1/2-milker-box thing takes up any extra space in the MRI tube.So there is NO room to adjust. Related: I really need to lose some weight. Also related: SURPRISE I'm not claustrophobic. </li>
<li>Turns out I can be in a seriously uncomfortable position without moving for 20 minutes out of sheer stubborn refusal to have to do this bullshit again (if you move during the longest scan, 9 minutes, they reschedule you for another day). </li>
<li>I am capable of meditating while my ribs bruise.</li>
<li>Spa music and noise cancelling headphones don't get rid of the MRI noise. </li>
<li>No amount of music can distract from feeling a troupe of fairies frantically dancing on my back during the final scan. Fucking weird. </li>
<li>MRI dye doesn't give you superpowers. I'm sorely disappointed. </li>
</ol>
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And now, I'm off to snuggle one of my favorite babies AND have dinner and watch horror movies with some of my favorite family.</div>
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Today is good. </div>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-32337343600522342922019-06-10T17:34:00.005-05:002019-06-10T17:58:32.412-05:00An Amateur Historian's Linguistic AnnoyanceI'm watching a documentary on the Etruscans. Yes I'm a nerd, this is established. I'm irritated with the historian/archaeology presenters.<br />
<br />
First, a thirty-second background on Etruscans because I usually assume I'm the only ancient history weirdo in the room. Please ignore the next two paragraphs if you're already all well-versed in Etruscan history, or medium-versed, or even know the name...in fact, feel free to comment with corrections if I've gotten any details wrong.<br />
<br />
Etruscans were the big-time civilization in Italy prior to Rome. They were extremely wealthy, extremely cosmopolitan, and it appears they were extremely egalitarian when it came to men and women. Greeks didn't like Etruscan women because they ate with their husbands (GASP...like equals, like a date where the dude actually wanted to spend time with his wife and hear what she had to say? What the fuck, Etruria?), they read, wrote, rode horses, they had their own names (OMFG, they weren't just named after their daddy-owners like Roman women, waiting to be passed off to their husband-owners?), they were treated as equals in parenting (as seen in funerary monuments identifying the dead as "son of" or "daughter of" BOTH parents' names), and they had the gall to be both athletic and sexual.<br />
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Etruria (now Tuscany) was eventually conquered by Rome and much of their art/customs were assimilated into Roman society...the ones they found useful, anyway. Similarly, Etruscan families were eventually assimilated into Roman society. The loss of female standing and cycle back to male-dominated society when the Etruscans were all Borg'd into Rome isn't what makes me irked. Over thousands of years and the rise and fall of tribes and civilizations there seems to be cycles of one sex dominating the other with periods of equality popping up here and there. That equality is never perfect and always relative to the surrounding nations, just as it is today.<br />
<br />
All of these tidbits are presented in the documentary by historians and archaeologists who've studied and made assumptions/conclusions/maybe guesses about Etruscan society as a whole based on the evidence at hand.<br />
<br />
This is not what irritates me about the otherwise awesomely fascinating documentary.<br />
<br />
It's annoying as hell to talk about women's rights as GIVEN TO THEM by the men of the society. When a PhD or respected historian uses phrases like "Etruscan women were <i>ALLOWED </i>more freedom than Greek or Roman women" (emphasis is mine) the base assumption is that women don't and didn't have that power to begin with. If there is little evidence other than the facts archaeology and surrounding literature provides (reading, writing, eating, names, etc) why must the scholars make the sexist assumption that women were <i>GIVEN </i>these things?<br />
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Maybe they set up their society that way from the beginning. Maybe that society valued both men and women as (again, gasp) people. Maybe women allowed men the power they had.<br />
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My point is, there's no way to know, and these sorts of ingrained assumptions are really terrible in innocuous ways. It's easy to take away rights from someone if you are brought around to sincere believe that you GIFTED them those rights from the beginning, not that they inherently have rights to respect, earning and keeping their own stuff, their very personhood. Why is it so damn hard to think that people thousands of years ago might have actually valued all citizens* in their society and built their customs and laws to reflect that value? <br />
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I sincerely wish more scholars would take a step back and consider their words and basic biases before presenting conclusions. After all, science (yay science!) has now proven some of those male Viking warrior burials were actually female: undeniably female skeletons with war wounds, buried with war grave goods, assumed to be male only because the evidence said "warrior". Assuming more egalitarian ancient societies were only more equal because the males in charge "allowed" the women freedom and rights is a disservice to that society as a whole. It's important to examine and discard biases and just present the damn facts: women had more power in Etruscan society than Greek or Roman women had. Period. <br />
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Perpetuating historical sexism when it actually isn't proven only perpetuates modern day sexism.<br />
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*<i>Yes, Etruscans kept slaves, just as many ancient cultures did. Slavery is a different treatise altogether, because if I am for agency and personhood I am for it in every case, which means slavery is both a related and different topic to feminism in historical accounts. Ultimately, just like many other cultures, I think they sucked for keeping slaves. THIS post, however, is about how historians can easily STILL say women were "GIVEN" their basic rights by the men, even when science hasn't provided proof either way.</i>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-68075690891842728262019-05-16T14:26:00.003-05:002019-05-16T14:26:46.016-05:00The Light Isn't Dead. I'm a dark person.<br />
<br />
I am. I cover it with humor and smartass pithy comments, but it's often hard for me to see the light in the world. The kindness. The compassion. The <i>good</i>.<br />
<br />
I live in one of the most progressive states in what used to be one of the more progressive countries on the planet. In the last month I've watched rights for women whittled away state by state as fascists and religious extremists take more and more control of the country I live in, as evil people attempt to control women's sexuality and freedom under the guise of their belief.<br />
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For the past few years I've watched evil people attempt to eradicate anyone brown, or black, or red, or poor (any heritage other than their own pasty, wealthy WASPs, really) by any means possible.<br />
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As if this country wasn't built on the backs of anyone NOT WASPy. As if they have some right to absolute rule, an unspoken tyrant oligarchy with a despot king at the helm, and willful ignorance celebrates it all. Current leadership here has emboldened hate.<br />
<br />
Yep, I'm pulling out the evil card, because that level of selfishness and disregard for other humans in favor of money and power is an infection that spreads like a damn virus of hate, and I find perpetuating hate pretty fucking evil. Detention camps in which the very children they insist they're saving with anti-woman reproductive care bills die, hateful rhetoric, dehumanizing speeches comparing human beings to animals and insects, Neo-Nazi marches, refusing sanctuary to war refugees...anything they can think of that stays under the international criminal court's radar.<br />
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It's exhausting and depressing. The weight of watching this happen and feeling so utterly helpless to create any real change can get utterly overwhelming. I mean, I understand and agree with the quote "all evil needs to triumph is for good men to do nothing" (as an aside, the etymology of that phrase is amazing, and worth looking up), but what does that mean in a practical sense? What can one person do against a mob? What possible difference can I make, or am I just stuck watching this happen, wringing my hands and standing by (or in this case, writing by)?<br />
<br />
The historian in me recognizes this dystopian, awful period is a relatively predictable societal swing that will come back eventually, but that's neither comforting nor helpful. The swing away from respecting people as fellow human beings, as equals who can and should run their own lives, is horrifying. It's not too surprising:humans throughout history have consistently been horrifying to each other. We haven't learned much in our thousands of years on this spaceball about how to treat our own species. But we've also been incredibly, inspiringly, <i>kind </i>to each other. The dichotomy of humanity is full of extremes, and we are living through a period that could get so unimaginably worse, but it could also be turned.<br />
<br />
<i>There is still light.</i><br />
<br />
There is <i>always </i>still light to be found, if you look for it. It's possible for a time we'll need to celebrate small victories to encourage compassion and kindness. I am a dark person. I have to sometimes look very hard for the light when things seem extra terrible to me, a state I can be in by the nasty tricks of depression in my mind just as much as news and social media. So here are some examples of light I found today just while writing this post over lunch. <br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><a href="https://twitter.com/DrJenGunter" target="_blank">Dr. Jen Gunte</a>r standing up unfailingly and unwaveringly for proper OBGYN care, and furiously, tenaciously correcting the lies spread about women and women's bodies. </li>
<li>Men and women publicly standing up <i>together </i>to say enough: publicly discussing things that were hidden in shadows for ages, advocating for POC and for refugee and immigrant rights. </li>
<li>Spring arriving in Minnesota after a horridly cold winter, as Nature wakes up and comforts with warm sun and fresh breezes. It is a season of hope and possibility, of new growth and increasing light here, and that does help. </li>
<li>My nephew sharing hugs with his sister and brothers because he's the most empathetic little boy I've ever met, and I adore him for having such consideration for others at six years old when so many in middle age have none. </li>
<li>I've seen Mr. Rogers' "Look for the helpers in an emergency" quote a lot lately, which tells me others are also looking for some good to hold onto. That means no matter how alone we might feel, we are NOT. </li>
</ul>
<br />
There are things in this world worth fighting for, but right now it may take a little work to find a way to see the slivers of light that are meaningful to you, and stand up for them. "Be the change you want to see in the world" isn't a silly cliche: we are responsible for our reactions to the universe and creating/maintaining our environment. No one person can be responsible for fixing the whole of their world, but we can be in charge of the way we help: that means cleaning up where we can. Stand up for humanity. Stand up for your environment, for your universe, even in the smallest ways, because that shit adds up and is seen. Stand up for love: no matter what religion you claim to participate in, they all emphasize loving and respecting other humans, even those who are different from you.<br />
<br />
And when the world seems to have forgotten that, be the light by remembering and demonstrating it.<br />
<br />
When I can't see the light for myself, I can sure as hell hope someone else can see it through my actions. There is light to counter the darkness: you can find it.<br />
<br />
If you can't find it, you can MAKE it. <br />
<br />
There is still good. There is still hope. We are still here.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-25952728466644526172019-04-06T16:21:00.002-05:002019-04-06T16:21:49.697-05:00Ragnar the Destroyer**primarily of walls, yards, and carpet<br />
<br />
For all things there is a season. A time to sow, a time to reap...<br />
<br />
A time to attempt to rip small furry rodents into small pieces, pick fights with the neighbor's German Shepherd, and a time to howl.<br />
<br />
Welcome to teenage doghood, where it's not the hormones that cause a pet parent to contemplate murder daily, but the instinctual need to define and defend the furry male territory. If you've never experienced teenage doghood stupidity, let me give you some examples.<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Idiot Puppy will sit nicely when the truck he recognizes enters the parking lot, but when the other German Shepherd gets out he will instantly Cujo out: full hackles, teeth bared, growling lunging in all the ways that would get him kicked directly out of daycare if he pulled that bullshit THERE. </li>
<ul>
<li><i>Conveniently for all involved, GS is older and wiser and terribly sweet. He generally looks at me when Ragnar gets growly with a pained "children, amIright" attitude, and never ever responds negatively. Interestingly, he still comes over cheerfully to say hello every time he's allowed, which is often since his parents also recognize the "BUT I'M A BIG DOG YOU CAN'T BE ON MY GRASS WITHOUT PERMISSION" cockiness.</i> </li>
</ul>
<li>IP also sits at the back door and slobber-growls when he sees the GS's TRUCK parked across the lot. This is a new development since the snow melted, prior to which his view was blocked. It's annoying at 7am. He's been warned, by both me and fAngus. </li>
<ul>
<li><i>fAngus's warnings generally come with a cat-paw-slap to Ragnar's face or a nip on the ear. Mine do not. </i></li>
</ul>
<li>Apparently he occasionally channels Chewy, because the leaves are dangerous and must be announced when it's windy. Birds on the back step, however, are beneath his interest. </li>
<ul>
<li><i>Birds are NOT beneath fAngus's interest. Particularly on the back patio. It's possible this was a consideration when a certain evil <b>me </b>set out birdseed on the grill this spring. </i></li>
<li><i>Mwahahahahaha</i></li>
</ul>
<li>IP has taken to getting between me and others in a protective manner I find amusing and helpful until he trips me or inappropriately shows teeth/growls at someone when I don't have an adverse response. </li>
<ul>
<li><i>We're working on that, since big black dogs with giant teeth generally cause problems if they're not behaving in public places. And I dislike getting tripped while we're walking...or any other time. </i></li>
</ul>
<li>It's worth mentioning again: not only does he behave well in daycare/boarding/dog park (except for going in the goddamnedishymuddypond without permission) and is a total social butterfly to everyone there, he ADORES the next door neighbors' new mop puppies. </li>
<ul>
<li><i>I don't know what they are, but they weigh all of a couple pounds and are the size of my unused-running shoes, and Ragnar LOVES them. </i></li>
</ul>
<li>Related: the bloodhound heritage is real, and loud. The other day we were sniffing the backyard (by "we" I mean I surfed Facebook for forever while Ragnar went over every centimeter of our shared yard-space with his nose in the dirt) and the neighbor girls brought the new moppies out. They were in the front yard. Ragnar desperately wanted to go to the front, and when I said no he sat down, raised his nose to the sky, closed his eyes, and howled the most mournful sad and FUCKING PATHETIC ATTEMPT AT MANIPULATION OF MY EMOTIONS possible. My dog told on me to the entire damn neighborhood and the gods, because I'm a mean bitch who wouldn't let him sniff puppies. </li>
<li>Yes, it worked. Goddammit. </li>
<ul>
<li><i>Sorry moppies, for the teenage puppy slobber. </i></li>
</ul>
<li>All the neighbors think my dog is hilarious and cute. <sigh> fAngus and I are the only ones who are less than amused at the squirrel-chasing, bunny sniffing, yard digging, wall eating, adorably snuggly teenager who has zero impulse control and a whole lot of unearned swagger. </sigh></li>
<li>To date, he's been unable to capture the elusive yard bunnies OR grey squirrels, both of whom are often spotted taunting him but fast enough to escape to the trees (up or under, depending on skill). I'm thankful for that: I give him de-worm pills and stuff, but I don't want to add any sort of small furry prey animals to my "Things Ragnar Ate" list. fAngus would have to kick his ass, since I won't let him hunt either. </li>
</ul>
<div>
In all fairness to Ragnar's <b><i>Destroyer of Walls</i></b> moniker, the 3 holes he originally ate during his pica stage haven't increased in size or number for at least six months. I'm cautiously optimistic that it's time to fix the walls and maybe even get someone to paint. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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He is still occasionally the <b style="font-style: italic;">Destroyer of Carpet</b>, which does not impress me at all and let me just say I've tried every product on the damn market and NOTHING is up to the challenge of a 75lb dog's pee. I hates it, precious, but I'm afraid of replacing the carpet AND I'm afraid if I don't he'll never<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>stop<b><i>. </i></b></div>
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I think he'd happily destroy more of the yard if I let him. Because...dogs. </div>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-2568260134600508572019-03-15T15:37:00.000-05:002019-03-15T15:37:01.493-05:00Review: Wild Country<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40508188" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="Wild Country" border="0" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1551724790m/40508188.jpg" /></a>
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40508188">Wild Country</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/26897">Anne Bishop</a><br />
My rating: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2683639146">5 of 5 stars</a>
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Anne Bishop is a master when it comes to creating a universe a reader can disappear into for days. I'm a long time fan, so I know how to ride this rodeo: even though I got my copy of <i>Wild Country</i> the day it released (Tuesday 3/5/19) I set it aside until the weekend. I can report that the resulting anticipation did not make my week move any faster. <br />
<br />
Cynics could say it's a dangerous game, building the sheer want to read a book you've been waiting for since the last installment (a year before) by looking at it every day on the table and not touching. I had zero worries about over-anticipation for this one, judging by the previous Others books, and rightly so. I started <i>Wild Country</i> on Saturday at noon and finished it before bed, because I couldn't put it down. Yet again, Anne Bishop got me completely lost in Thaisia and the often uncomfortable, sometimes funny, sometimes downright terrifying interactions between humans and Others. <br />
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<i>Wild Country</i> occurs during the same time frame as <i>Etched in Bone</i>, the last Courtyard book. As there is a detailed backstory prior to this book, I highly recommend reading the whole series. There are communications between the communities that will make sense to readers of the series, but <i>Wild Country</i> is its own story with its own array of personalities and could be read as a stand-alone, although to be fair the reader would miss out on many references. <br />
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The varied plot threads come together seamlessly over the course of the book as characters grow, sometimes toward their new fragile community, sometimes away, and the rest of the world (and other books' timelines) changes around them. I adore the sub-plot around the frontier saloon and its proprietor, because Tess is my favorite character in the Courtyard and I'm happy Bennett has their own lonely predator interested in learning how to interact safely with town residents of all species.<br />
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The threat of violence and savagery is skillfully written: Bishop is an adept line-skater who strays close to horror on occasion but never crosses out of dark fantasy. She's also not afraid to take out a character when a dose of real life (in her universe) kicks in, so <i>Wild Country</i> engages the reader on every emotional level at some point or another. <br />
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The worst part about this book is waiting until next March for another story in this universe, because every time I jump into this series it's hard to come back out. If you like dangerous, dark fantasy set in a world five steps to the left of reality (absolutely recognizable yet totally different than the modern world) you need to get into these books. <i>Wild Country</i> is everything I wanted in a story of the Others: I recommend setting aside a chunk of time and snacks, because you're going to be in there a while.
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<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2683639146">View all my reviews</a>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-51994282185990412282019-02-04T12:22:00.000-06:002019-02-04T12:22:09.100-06:00Reasons I Shouldn't Personally Hit The Snooze ButtonDisclaimer: I am not judging your ability or inability to hit said snooze button.<br />
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<b>1) It's not actually a button anymore.</b> <i>Seriously..it's a random space in the middle of a touch screen on a device I'm more likely to throw across the room when the stupid noise starts than fumble my ham-hands to the correct fingertip spot on the screen. There are many other button sized things I can do with my fingers first thing in the morning* without triggering cognitive spark in my brain: the snooze button takes actual effort. And yet I do it anyway, because fuck getting up on time. </i><br />
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<b>2) Yeah yeah, I KNOW it makes me groggy</b>. <i>If I didn't roll over and say "fuck everything" when I woke up, and heaved myself up to a semi-upright impression of any primate I might actually wake up eventually. I'm tired all the time lately, and some of that is likely my hour of hitting snooze, because I fall all the way back to sleep in those 9 minute intervals.</i><br />
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<b>3) Dreaming is a grab bag of fun.</b> S<i>peaking of those 9 minute intervals: I dream heavily during my between-button-fumbles. Sometimes the dream is just put on pause when I have to shut my phone up, and I can drop right back into it. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Do you have any idea how horrifying that can be? This morning I dreamt I was charged with house/babysitting for friends of mine after their baby is born. No, I don't know why the fuck anyone would go on vacation immediately after, or leave said newborn with ME of all people: it was a dream, it made no sense. And for some reason assassins were trying to get in and kill me (there are way too many windows/doors in that house, FYI). I'm betting it's the same ones who failed to kill me in real life by sending me a fancy new winter hat and forgetting the skin-contact toxins, so NEENER I can wear my hat all winter long and my face won't melt off.<br />
<br />
Um. Anyway.<br />
<br />
I spent an hour this morning jumping in and out of a weird bad-guys-chasing-me-fight-back-ow-hide-fight-back-ow-HAHAYOUDIEMOTHERFUCKER-hide cycle punctuated by pauses to say "goddammit, not yet" and smacking the top of my phone again.<br />
<br />
I should probably mention the secret passages I discovered in my dream in case the current residents don't know about them, shouldn't I?<br />
<br />
Disclaimer the second: This is not a post about productivity or being a "look what I did before you even got up today" person. OMG I'm jealous of all of you who are those people, and I only want to kill you for the first two minutes I'm trying to claw my way into consciousness every day, I promise.<br />
<br />
*I heard that snicker, and I appreciate the thought, but I <b>meant </b>the shampoo container's cap, the toothpaste, the button to grind coffee beans...etc. etc. etc.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-39919935975492557282019-01-29T10:36:00.002-06:002019-01-29T10:36:24.181-06:00Of Course My Secret Admirers Are WeirdA long time ago in a suburb not so far away from where I live now, I had a weird secret admirer leave me a mystery: <a href="https://nopithyphrase.blogspot.com/2017/12/the-17-year-old-unsolved-mystery-of.html" target="_blank">and that's when Russell Crowe showed up in my grandparents' mailbox. </a><div>
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It's now been nearly 20 years and I still don't know who did it. </div>
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Last week I got home from my new in-the-office-more job (this transition is hard enough I'm not writing about it) to an Amazon envelope on my front step. I order from Amazon a lot, so I didn't think it especially odd to forget I had a package coming. Also, occasionally a couple people have things shipped to my house instead of their own (when you work from home full time, it's safer to ship here). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But no, the package was addressed to me at my full name, with no return address, no packing slip, and no indicator of the sender at all. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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It's a winter hat. A toasty warm knit winter hat that I like but probably wouldn't have ordered for myself. NO IDEA who it came from: I mean, who uses my full name with middle initial?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I checked my own account just in case I drunk shopped or something...nope. I asked family and friends, stuck the question on Facebook, asked family and friends AGAIN. </div>
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No joy. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
So I apparently have either the same or a new secret admirer terribly concerned about my frigid brainpan. The weather in Minnesota on my phone app says "Feels like -30", which should actually read "feels like you pissed of Mother Nature so badly she's slapping your face with a thousand ice needles every time you go outside to let the dog dance in the snow instead of peeing like he's supposed to." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My secret admirer wants to prevent my ears from icing over and breaking off, so I've got that going for me. </div>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-8023303142208563892019-01-21T14:02:00.001-06:002019-01-21T14:02:28.086-06:00Review: The Sin Eater's Last Confessions: Lost Traditions of Celtic Shamanism<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2314275" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="The Sin Eater's Last Confessions: Lost Traditions of Celtic Shamanism" border="0" src="https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1348020276m/2314275.jpg" /></a>
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2314275">The Sin Eater's Last Confessions: Lost Traditions of Celtic Shamanism</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/182218">Ross Heaven</a><br />
My rating: <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2683569669">5 of 5 stars</a>
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When I picked this up, I anticipated a book of Welsh, Scottish, and Briton mythology surrounding the history of Sin Eaters with a bit of personal background. Instead, Ross Heaven wrote an engaging and lovely memoir about his time learning from one of the last Sin Eaters in Wales. Heaven's tone is similar to Dan Millman: any wisdom or lesson is presented more like a cozy conversation in someone's living room than a class. Pagan books can sometimes be dryly informative: this was utterly charming in tone and delivery. I ended up reading it twice: once for the story itself, and again to take practical notes. <br />
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I read it over New Year's weekend this winter, and it has set the tone for my approach to reading for work, pleasure, and spirituality this year. I loved it, and I'd have tea and conversation with Mr. Heaven any time.
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<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/2683569669">View all my reviews</a>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-51244304613130722232019-01-15T16:08:00.000-06:002019-01-15T16:08:07.297-06:00It's a Mew YearNot long ago I decided it's not fair that Ragnar steals all Angus's toys for the sweet sweet catnip high he finds inside. Puppies: utterly certain everything within their sniff or pee range is THEIRS, and damn anyone* else's prior claim.<br />
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<i>Also puppies: unaffected by catnip yet rudely ensure the cat can't get high out of sheer spite. </i><br />
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Anyway, since poor giant fAngus keeps getting his nip-stuffed-mouse-toys stolen, I decided to get him one of those feather-doodads-on-a-stick toys. Something that requires human intervention, and thusly a break from Ragnar pinning him down and stealing from him like a schoolyard bully. One hopes.<br />
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In practice, this has turned into an epic war that brings out a growly BattleCat.<br />
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Ragnar can hear that cat having fun from anywhere in my house. He can be dead asleep on the couch in the living room and hear fAngus start to run/jump after his featherless toy.<br />
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<i>Featherless because, of course, it took all of 15 seconds for both sets of predatory teeth to rip off the bird-parts, leaving only the weird wiry springs behind. Bird parts have become extremely appealing to fAngus of late: there are winter birds (chickadees, mostly) who strut their cocky little selves back and forth across the step and patio on the other side of the glass. More than once I've come home to a cat-pancake staring intently though the glass, the end of his tail a frantic whip. If you've never served a cat before, you should know they don't just meow: they also growl and make this fucked up chittering noise that's almost a squirrel impression, particularly when they're wound up for hunting and can't make a kill. Domesticated my ass.</i><br />
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Anyway, fAngus chases and jumps and does all the normal cat things for this stupid elastic thingy on a stick, and Ragnar comes a-RUNNIN up the stairs. No one has any fun in this house without puppy involvement, dammit!<br />
<br />
Well, nearly no one.<br />
<br />
fAngus usually plays well with Ragnar: when the puppy gets too rough he holds his own and they both cry, and I consider that a draw. He often just sighs and lets the puppy steal toys from him, because it's likely not worth the effort to get something back when it's soaked in stinky dog drool anyway. But when makes his kill my tolerant little monster becomes the crabby big cat he's sure he can be. He holds the brightly colored wiry elastic in his mouth like some sad dead fairy, lays his ears flat against his head, and growls at the dog. Ragnar, understandably taken aback (Well, the first time. Since then he provokes on purpose.), carefully puts his nose nearer the prize, and fAngus swipes claws out in a full "I WILL KILL YOU THIS IS MINE" snout attack. The resulting thwap/yelp probably shouldn't be funny.<br />
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It is.<br />
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At this point it's hard to keep hold of the stick while laughing so hard, and they continue to fight, so I let go. fAngus runs off dragging the stick behind him to hide his kill, and all is well for the afternoon, right? Sigh.<br />
<br />
So...it turns out my cat is more devious than I'd given him credit for, and I'm sure I'll pay for that. Today Ragnar is at daycare playing with others more appropriate for his 70lb bouncing. Angus brought the stick toy into the office and dropped it at my feet, sat down, looked up at me, and meowed very politely. "I would like to hunt, please."<br />
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I ignored him.<br />
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He moved closer and meowed again, with a question mark at the end. "Please will you play?"<br />
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He waited another two seconds and MEOWED. "Let me rephrase. YOU WILL FUCKING BE PREY NOW."<br />
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He chased a stupid elastic doohickey on a stick until he was happily panting, but when he caught it, he looked at me and growled. REALLY growled. "LET. GO." So I did, because I was fascinated at this turn of events.He dragged his kill out to another room and I went back to work.<br />
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Fifteen minutes later, no longer panting like the fat boy he is, he happily trots into the room, tail high in pride and still holding the toy in his teeth, and drops the stick at my feet. And sits down. And meows. Rinse, wash, repeat until he was finally ready to nap, but you know, he growls every time he catches that thing now and drags it away to wherever he thinks his stash belongs. I can't find it: the stick is currently missing. I suppose he'll bring it back when he's ready. Goddess help me if he actually finds a mouse, bird, or fairy in my house. I suppose the smell would help me find his cache.<br />
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I don't THINK he can drag Ragnar around if he manages to pull an alien facehugger move that causes real damage...honestly I'm not sure of that.<br />
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fAngus proved to me today he knows full well this is a game, he knows exactly how to get me to play prey with him, and goddammit if he can't go outside and hunt real creatures he's GOING to get to hunt and kill things in the house at his leisure, thank you very much.<br />
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I've made peace with the likelihood that fAngus will eat me if I die home alone.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-18626704348530791482018-11-28T19:48:00.001-06:002018-11-28T19:48:26.886-06:00Be the Reason for Cranky CynicsI saw a meme today that said "Be the reason someone believes there's goodness in the world." Ugh. Just...ugh. That's WAYYYYYYY too much pressure for snarky cynical me: I suggest the following alternatives. Feel free to add your own.<br />
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<b>Be the reason... someone wonders when they landed in an alternate dimension.</b><i><b> </b>I mean, who doesn't want tea with an eyeless tentacled creature from that other universe? You know, the one you find in the closet? </i><br />
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<b>Be the reason... someone believes in mediocrity</b><i><b>. </b>Hey, goodness can be overwhelming. Some days mediocrity is fucking FANTASTIC. </i><br />
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<b>Be the reason... someone picks up their own goddamn dishes. </b><i>Why yes, actually, from now on dishes you leave in the living room WILL be piled on your pillow. (This is perhaps an awkward tactic if you live alone. I suggest finding inappropriate alternatives in that case.)</i><br />
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<b>Be the reason... someone says "what the actual fuck is WRONG with you?" </b><i>Self explanatory, really. It's likely my favorite because it happens so often. </i><br />
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<b>Be the reason... for a powerfully awkward silence. </b><i>I'd like to brag here that I've practiced this art since I was five, and I'm an adept. You may bow, or be afraid...either works.</i><b style="font-style: italic;"> </b><br />
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<b>Be the reason... someone says "is that an EAR on the floor?" </b><i>Thanks Ragnar. Um, for the record, it was a dog ear...not a real dog ear, one from a stuffed dog. Torn off, presumably, by the real dog, who regularly channels his Viking namesake and berserks all over his toys. It's pretty gross. </i><br />
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<b>Be the reason your favorite coffee house stays open.</b> <i>How else does one get all that mediocrity accomplished? </i><br />
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<b>Be the reason...you have a fun and entertaining holiday season.</b> <i>Yep, even if it's purely because you're reveling in your own personal style of insanity. </i><br />
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If a little kindness sneaks in there and you make someone's day better by accident or on purpose, or you find you're having a horrifying moment of sentimental warm FEELINGS...don't worry.<br />
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I won't tell.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-20860286858676090542018-10-03T11:05:00.001-05:002018-10-03T11:05:27.775-05:00Pets: Not for the Faint-Hearted<br />
I've held a lot of this in for a year, and this is NOT a pleasant or easy read. It is not funny, and there is detail I'm not sorry about sharing but isn't fun. This is your warning.<br />
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Today is the one year anniversary of <a href="https://nopithyphrase.blogspot.com/2017/10/lo-there.html" target="_blank">Chewy's </a>death.<br />
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That's a kind way of saying it: a euphemism, really, because Chewy didn't die naturally or in an accident. Chewy died because I made the decision to kill him, and I think I'll carry guilt for the rest of my life.<br />
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The time came for Thor in December 2016, and with him I waited too long. He'd been declining with cancer for a while, and by the time we brought him in there really was no choice. He was so ready to go the last few days he just slept with his head on my lap, asking for help. When the vet came in he sighed heavily with obvious relief, licked my hand to say goodbye, and relaxed. He was asleep in seconds and gone in less than a minute. I promised myself I wouldn't make any other pets suffer on my selfish behalf when it's time, because his last couple of weeks were miserable for him, and it was purely due to my inability to say goodbye.<br />
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A year later, in 2017, Chewy wasn't ready. His back legs mostly didn't work anymore (I had to use a towel-sling to get him outside to go potty), his voice had mostly given out, but overall he was pretty alert and perky, if immobile. As fall set in, though, he was starting to falter and his joints hurt some. He fell down the stairs almost daily: he'd try his damnedest to climb up to sleep in my office while I worked: it usually took a couple of tries and sometimes my help. I'd hear him thump his way back down, his back legs having failed him again, his poor belly and chin smacking each step down to the landing. It hurt: he'd lie there and pant for a long time before trying again. And he'd still try again EVERY GODDAMNED TIME. I tried to work from the living room as much as I could, but it wasn't enough.<br />
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Still, on his last day the weather was gorgeous (much like today...thanks dude) and he spent a long while standing or lying in the grass barking at things in the neighborhood. Just randomly joyfully barking, as though not a damn thing was wrong at all. He had cheeseburgers for lunch, as much puppy ice cream as he wanted, and napped in the sun with the kitten for a while before I took him in. The whole day I second guessed myself, because this was my dog again. he had a great day. He wasn't ready to go.<br />
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I made the decision to put him down before the deep cold hit his joints, before the trips down the stairs broke his neck, before he got stuck in the snow or ice just trying to go potty in the winter. I made the decision to kill my dog before he was emotionally ready to go, because I didn't want him to experience the decline I saw in Thor and have a miserable ending. I wanted him to go out when he'd had a good day. I'll never be sure that was the right thing to do. I played god and killed my pet before Death came for him.<br />
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He was 130lbs at the end: I couldn't pick him up. The day I brought him to the vet, I had to have help lifting him in and use a sling to bring him into the office. And he was so goddamned happy and cheerful, saying hi to everyone like normal.<br />
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When we took Thor in, my vet gave me the reality of faces of euthanasia. In Thor's case, we were lucky: everything went quietly and easily because he was so ready to go, but there are many variations of death, and luckily he'd told me other possible outcomes.<br />
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When the techs put Chewy's IV in, he wiggled and they'd missed the vein, so the sedative didn't work. He struggled to get up. They had to re-do the IV and the sedative. He watched me as it finally kicked in, obviously wondering what the fuck was going on here, and struggled more until his eyes half closed and his tongue stuck out of his mouth on the exam room's floor. He was too big for the blanket they put down, you see, and he couldn't relax enough to lay his head in my lap. I petted and talked to him without stopping, reassuring him and staying calm as my vet administered Pepto-pink death through a hypodermic into my dog's front leg.<br />
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I'll never use Pepto again.<br />
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Chewy struggled, flailed, drooled, twitched, and desperately tried to lift his head even mostly sedated as the drug reached his heart. He didn't go easily: he fought like a goddamned warrior right up until the end.<br />
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He wasn't ready. And even though a cold analytical view of his status and the immediate future of suffering still has me falling on the side that i did what was best for him, it doesn't FEEL like I did what was best for him.<br />
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And that's why pet stewardship is both awesome and fucking awful. You are their god. They are a part of your universe, but you are ALL of theirs, and it's the human's responsibility not only to do what's right and necessary no matter how awful it is (even when it sticks with you forever), but also to BE THERE for it.<br />
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There's an article going around in social media about a vet's take on owners who leave their pets alone to die. I get that it's awful and hard: I've seen both sides of the process and it's not always easy. I get that if you have a backup or truly can't control your grief, it's better to leave than stress them out more. But ultimately, I firmly believe you are the adult. You are the human, and taking on that life means you are responsible for it through to the end.<br />
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You suck it up and stay with them (and stay calm) because it's not about YOU. Comforting a loved one as they die is an act of compassion and love, and pets deserve that honor after dedicating their lives to you. It sucks. It's terrible, and exhausting, and it's really fucking hard to not start bawling when they're going, whether Death comes easy or not. It's also part of the gig. I get there by remembering advice I'd been given years ago, when I struggled with a different situation that threatened to overwhelm my ability to be present for someone else's crisis: <i>stay in the love.</i><br />
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Focus on THEM: focus all your love and energy and comfort and petting and gratitude for their time with you on them.<br />
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Leaving this world showered in affection and reassurance and comfort from the person/people at the center of your universe can't be a bad thing: if that's all you can give your pets that's enough, even when their end comes before they're ready. After they're gone, by all means fall apart. I did.<br />
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I did today as I wrote this, because October is a time of endings and I'll remember his last day until I see him again. Han asked me recently where dogs go when they die, and can we visit them, and will we see them again (Evil piped in and said Heaven is another planet). Nothing like a 6 year old's perfectly reasonable questions (WHY DO I GET THEM? I'm the AUNT!) to get a girl thinking about what my boys are doing in their afterlives. I presume bunny-chasing and barking are high on the list.<br />
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I miss Thor and Chewy as horrendously as I am eternally grateful for my current furry monsters.<br />
And someday I'll do this dance again. A long, long time from now.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-39100365953525524692018-10-02T12:06:00.001-05:002018-10-02T12:06:32.853-05:00Book Review: Picture Perfect Cowboy by Tiffany ReiszRetired bull rider Jason Waters is about as tightly wound and uncomfortable as a cowboy can be. He fits every surface assumption about a rodeo athlete more accustomed to thousand pound pissed off animals than people: lean, quiet, calm, conservative, and unfailingly polite. Unfortunately for Jason (and luckily for us), a promise to a fellow rodeo buddy puts Jason in the position of posing naked for a hot-rodeo-boys calendar: a calendar Simone Levine is shooting. Simone's unique combination of artistic mischief and harmlessness cuts through the Jason's polite shield, and he unexpectedly reveals a secret he's carried for years. And so they begin with a nude photo shoot and a naked confession.<br />
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One of my favorite things about Tiffany Reisz's work is the way she takes a familiar romance novel premise and twists it down excellently unexpected paths. <i>Picture Perfect Cowboy</i> occurs in the Original Sinners universe, which generally guarantees a certain level of character depth (oh yes, that pun is intended) as well as varying levels of smut. This story doesn't disappoint, as it turns out Jason is terrified his own predilections make him a terrible and depraved man. Simone, on the other hand, is an occasional professional at King's NY club and a personal friend of Mistress Nora. Who better to help Jason relax and be who he is, by proving that a little depravity doesn't make him a bad guy?<br />
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Again, the romance theme of the "good woman is all a rake needs to be reformed" is revised to a more modern and entertainingly smutty adventure. Reisz doesn't skimp on the varying erotic scenes. True to form, some are pure sexiness while some skate the edge of downright uncomfortable, and there's really no predicting which scenes will have either effect on any reader. If you aren't an expert on spanking after this, you weren't paying attention.<br />
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What's really interesting in this story is Jason's evolution, both in emotional growth and technical skill. I love that Reisz always delves into the how/why of a character's kinks, and though some of the motivating factors can be judged as awful (through no fault of Jason's own), the end result is an acceptance without judgment of his needs as an adult. Simone (with a little help from Nora and Soren) actively encourages Jason to accept himself and navigate the twisty ethical and emotional effects of desires he's been ashamed of as morally terrible due to his upbringing.<br />
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In addition to his internal struggle, relationship conflicts arise as outside parties are introduced to Jason and Simone's private world, and the vast lifestyle differences between a Kentucky horse rancher and a New York professional kinkster interfere. <i>Picture Perfect Cowboy</i> is a lot of relationship packed into a pretty short package. Tiffany Reisz covers both traditional romance novel issues as well as BDSM kink with the same excellent style in the other Sinners books.<br />
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My only complaint is the traditional market length of this story necessarily leaves little room for more, and I <i>wanted </i>more. The best possible danger of writing is convincing readers the characters are real people you want to hang out with: this is an absolute success. I hope this becomes a bit of a series since at least one other character has some clear Sinner potential, because I thoroughly enjoyed Simone and Jason's love story. Also, I'm not going to lie, I'd love to find out how Jason and Griffin get along.<br />
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<i>Picture Perfect Cowboy</i> by Tiffany Reisz is available on November 5th in hardcover and ebook from <a href="http://www.8thcirclepress.com/" target="_blank">8th Circle Press</a>.<br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Picture-Perfect-Cowboy-Original-Sinners-ebook/dp/B07G9MNNV2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1538491023&sr=8-1&keywords=picture+perfect+cowboy" target="_blank">Picture Perfect Cowboy on Amazon</a>Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-47266823313871376462018-09-07T13:48:00.003-05:002018-09-07T13:48:28.368-05:00More Things Ragnar Ate and Drunk Walrus Impersonations. These Are Unrelated.Once in a while, I re-up a subscription to one of those monthly boxes of random fun stuff, just because who doesn't like getting a box of something NOT bills in the mail? <div>
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This month, it was a witchybox full of various pagan bits and pieces (um, let's be clear I mean bits and pieces of <i>things that are often associated with witches and pagans</i>, not bits and pieces OF a pagan...that'd be gross, and way messier than this box turned out to be). </div>
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Ragnar apparently thought the box smelled fascinating. Therefore, Ragnar ripped the box apart in the middle of my office floor when I was in another room. </div>
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Interestingly, there was some incense, some bath salts (the sort for bathing in, not the sort that turn a person into a face-eating zombie), a candle or two, a set of Tarot Cards...and the ONLY thing he destroyed was the box the cards came in. My wall-eating, shoe-devouring, garbage destroying dog OPENED the jar of bath salt and very carefully didn't eat any, and left everything else alone. </div>
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I'm fairly certain that box came with some sort of anti-dog-destruction spell, and it seems to be persistent. </div>
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Last night I used some of the salts. I usually leave the bathroom door open a little so they don't scratch at it when I'm in a bath, and Ragar slammed his way enthusiastically into the room per usual. Then he stopped, all four legs went completely stiff, his hackles went up just a little, and he stared in horrified disbelief. Seriously, his message "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" was crystal clear, and hilarious. He wouldn't come near the bathtub, and jumped back if I moved the water. He made a ridiculous whine/growl noise and ran out of the room. </div>
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You guys, I'm not kidding: he went to get Angus. My dog tattled on me for being in the bathtub, and brought the actual ruler of the household in to check. Ragnar stayed over a foot away from the tub while Angus jumped on the side, licked my knee, batted the water a little, and settled there to watch floating lavender bits. It's possible he stuck his face in the water and sneezed. I was laughing too hard to be certain. </div>
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Ragnar continued his protest by lying on the bathroom floor and keeping both eyes on us, clearly worried the horrible water monster would kill us both. He grumbled like an old man for the entire time. </div>
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He also ate both of my last two pairs of sunglasses recently: he gets zero sympathy. </div>
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In other news, I'm taking my open-water scuba diving certification dives this weekend. In order to do said dives, I'm required to go to the scuba shop and try on wetsuits (because it's September in MN and lakes are starting to cool off, especially at 20 feet down). </div>
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Have you ever tried on a wetsuit? I mean the 7mm version, not the cute skinny 3mm half suits used for warm weather/warm water stuff. Have you ever tried to pull on a pair of tights that REFUSE to allow you to pull them all the way up so the crotch is, well, in the crotch? It's infinitely harder to do when the fucking tights are weird rubbery material that squishes under your fingers and doesn't move much. </div>
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WHO INVENTED THIS FRESH HELL? Seriously, I'd like to put the wetsuit creator in the same room as the dipshit who invented thong underwear or control-top pantyhose and beat them all with something humiliating. Like a giant dildo. </div>
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I'm 6' tall, and I'm not one of those willowy thin tall chicks. Wrangling my buns into that thing involved flailing, heavy breathing, sweating, swearing, and eventually falling over like a damn drunk walrus. And having dropped off my yoga practice and not having any natural contortionist ability, I had to leave the dressing room and get help to zip it up. Since I wasn't actually GOING diving, I wasn't in a swimsuit - awesome. </div>
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I have to do this tomorrow and Sunday in front of people...if I don't cause the rest of the divers to fall overboard and drown from laughing too hard, I deserve a goddamned medal. </div>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-40740738764084098002018-08-21T15:37:00.003-05:002018-08-21T15:37:35.825-05:00Things Ragnar Ate Episode 4: The ReekingI hate cicada season. HATES it, Precious.<br />
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Ragnar doesn't give a hoot (or a bark, or a howl, or some weird middle-of-the-night snuffle-grunt that scares the shit out of his owner) about cicadas. </div>
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Ragnar cares deeply about the innards of stuffed animals. And shoes. And walls. </div>
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So, lately in the list of Things Ragnar Ate: </div>
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<li><b>Another pair of flip flops - </b><i>sadly, Crocs are in some sort of trouble and he keeps eating my sandals...and I'm insane enough to attempt to thwart him by buying another pair and hoping I don't forget to put them out of reach. Oh come now, do we REALLY think I'm capable of keeping them safe from the one-shoe-eater? </i></li>
<li><b>A full bag of strawberry Twizzlers - </b><i>I expect to clean up something resembling the results of Strawberry Shortcake kegger later.</i></li>
<li><b>Something that could be a melon-ball sized ball of butter, a hard boiled egg yolk, or possibly some sort of alien eyeball, covered with ants - </b><i>I mean, he's a damn master at finding weird shit in the yard as well as leaving weird shit in the yard. However, the eye-rolling and frantic snorting when he gets an ant up his nose is utterly priceless. </i></li>
<li><b>Just another hole in the wall</b><i> - Pink Floyd would be proud, I'm sure. For those counting, this makes three. Is there a psychiatrist out there who treats pica in dogs? I don't get his fascination with sheetrock. </i></li>
<li><b>Weiner Dog and Olaf guts</b><i> - not real ones. But his weiner dog stuffed animal is now gutless and I spent a good 20 minutes picking up fluff even as he looked me in the eye and slooooooowly pulled out more stuffing, like a creepy serial killer. Who makes a stuffed dog toy of another dog, anyway? Disturbing. </i></li>
<li><b>Every throw pillow in this house</b><i> - because he's a fucker who obviously hates my naps. </i></li>
<li><b>A goose egg. Where the fuck did he find a GOOSE EGG, and WHY WAS IT ROTTEN? - </b><i>I mean crawling with maggots, green and black inside, death-stench rotten. What the fuck have people been doing in this townhome complex, really? </i></li>
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If I catch the person leaving rotten goose eggs or weird yellow balls of something icky in the yard, I suspect they'll find an unidentifiable stench in their yard...far away from my stinky-breathed-dog.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-76738644590297015092018-08-16T12:09:00.001-05:002018-08-16T12:09:46.811-05:00Make America Educated Again I'm not sure how to title this post, because the utter stupidity of the conversation that sparked it annoyed me so much I needed a couple of days to decide how to approach the subject.<br />
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Two days ago Minnesota held Primary Elections. I was outside letting Ragnar snuffle around instead of doing the business he was supposed to be doing, and my neighbor walked by. I've talked about <a href="https://nopithyphrase.blogspot.com/2013/05/when-snow-white-gets-old-and.html" target="_blank">her </a>before, and to be fair we mostly get along. But Tuesday she received a real response from me, because her self-absorbed stupid was just amazing.<br />
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She started the conversation by complaining that our property taxes will go up again because my city had "yet another stupid school levy pass".<br />
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Ok, I was confused at the bitter snarky tone. "Why is that a problem? Good schools mean good neighborhoods which mean good housing prices and upkeep." I honestly think she expected me, a single woman with no kids, to actually agree with her. Instead I continued, "I don't have kids but I WANT good schools, so I'm happy to pay the levies...a good school system makes the whole city better to live in."<br />
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Selfish to the core, she immediately changed tactics, because ultimately her fussing is purely based on "I don't have kids in school, why should I have to pay" which I find to be an underlying formula based on self-absorbed myopia among many MAGA folks: "I don't have/do x, so I shouldn't have to pay for y." Yeah. I'll get to that idiot argument in a minute. Her argument changed to "well it all goes into teacher pensions anyway, none of the kids see any of that money."<br />
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<i>OH MY FUCKING GODDESS, YOU SELFISH IDIOT</i>.<br />
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I didn't say it out loud. I so wanted to. Instead I said, calmly, "So...teachers already don't get paid enough for what they're doing, and you begrudge them a decent pension after they spend decades putting their own money toward underfunded school supplies and work ridiculous numbers of hours for ridiculously low pay to educate the people who will eventually run the nursing home you end up in? I disagree."<br />
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She flounced (as well as a 70 year old cranky old bat can flounce, anyway) with the following parting shot: "Nobody paid for MY pension and I never made enough money. Why should I pay for them?" Can you hear the nasty combination of whine and bitterness in her tone? I did. Ugh. Then she slammed the door, thus endeth her proclamation.<br />
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So, as amusing and idiotic as she is, the whole conversation disturbs the crap out of me, particularly in this current political climate and with an a-hole like Betsy Davros at the helm of national education directives. Let's remember what the difference is between SOCIALISM and SOCIETY is, shall we, because there seems to be some serious confusion regarding freedom, socialism, education, and the benefits/responsibilities of living in a society by a whole fuckload of selfish asshats since the idiot cheeto came to power.<br />
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<li>If you drive on roads, YOU BENEFIT FROM SOCIETY. </li>
<li>If you get city water/sewer service to your house, YOU BENEFIT FROM SOCIETY. </li>
<li>If your public education is decent, your neighborhood is more desirable. </li>
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<li>If your neighborhood is more desirable, your housing prices rise (including the value of your own property, which is essentially an investment of many folks' personal wealth) and those who buy into the neighborhood tend to take care of their property, and YOU BENEFIT FROM SOCIETY. </li>
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<li>If your home is on fire and you call the fire department, YOU BENEFIT FROM SOCIETY. </li>
<li>If you have need to call 911 for cops or paramedics, YOU BENEFIT FROM SOCIETY. </li>
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If you can read, you can learn to understand the laws (you know, laws enacted by society?). If you can understand the laws, you can support or dissent. If you can disagree with a law you understand, you can discuss with others and potentially change the law. Freedom requires participation, which in our country usually requires at least a base level of education. Otherwise, you are just going along with what others impose upon you and your say is silenced.<br /><ul>
<li>Just for the record - <b>SOCIALISM </b>is defined as follows: <i>a <span class="one-click" data-term="theory" style="color: #3c7bbe; cursor: pointer; font-size: 15px;">theory</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">or</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="system" style="font-size: 15px;">system</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">of</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><a class="luna-xref" data-linkid="nn1ov4" href="https://www.dictionary.com/browse/social-organization" style="color: #3c7bbe; font-size: 15px; text-decoration-line: none;">social organization</a><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="that" style="font-size: 15px;">that</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="advocates" style="font-size: 15px;">advocates</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="the" style="font-size: 15px;">the</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="vesting" style="font-size: 15px;">vesting</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">of</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="the" style="font-size: 15px;">the</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="ownership" style="font-size: 15px;">ownership</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="and" style="font-size: 15px;">and</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="control" style="font-size: 15px;">control</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">of</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="the" style="font-size: 15px;">the </span><span class="one-click" data-term="means" style="font-size: 15px;">means</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">of</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="production" style="font-size: 15px;">production</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="and" style="font-size: 15px;">and</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span>distribution,<span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">of</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="capital" style="font-size: 15px;">capital,</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="land" style="font-size: 15px;">land,</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="etc" style="font-size: 15px;">etc.,</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">in</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="the" style="font-size: 15px;">the</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="community" style="font-size: 15px;">community</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">as a</span><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><span class="one-click" data-term="whole" style="font-size: 15px;">whole.</span></i></li>
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Services society has agreed to pay for so we can use them and share the cost, like roads or fire departments, are not socialism. They are the result of participating in a community, which has zero difference from community-assisted barn raising or volunteering to trade harvest help a hundred years ago. I'm convinced that some of these folks who think in a selfish and short sighted way about education, health services, etc. must have had a seriously sub-par education. All the more reason to improve our schools. </div>
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Here's the thing - education is one of the essential areas where anyone not in the 1% of wealth can be kept under control by that same 1%. If you are uneducated (by choice or by lack of resource availability) you are easy to keep down because you're too busy trying to survive on low wages, bad benefits (or none, including health insurance), and all the downstream ramifications. Education is a basic stepping stone to an fairer and more equal society where the majority of folks have at least a SHOT at that elusive "something better" this country is founded on. </div>
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<i><b>An uneducated populace allows propaganda and fear to rule their lives, and we get shit like the Inquisition. WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT ANOTHER INQUISITION?</b></i></div>
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The tricky part of society's services that offer a CHANCE at more equality is that nothing is guaranteed. Just because the opportunity is there doesn't mean everyone takes it, and if we're all honest luck <i>does </i>have some say in success, but the simple availability of basic education is one of the services differentiating a successful functioning society and serfdom. </div>
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The kicker, the lesson so many seem to forget after 9th grade civics, is if you are going to benefit from society you are also responsible to it. If you participate in life, you are responsible for making the environment in which you live the way it is (good or bad). I think people who recognize this responsibility make some effort to make things better, because bitching and complaining is a downward spiral. It doesn't have to be a grand gesture or a full time job: it can be as simple as recognizing that only shitty selfish assholes take without ever giving back and bitch about things like taxes for the roads they use, the emergency services they might need, the medicare they inevitably complained about paying into but then use at retirement (like my neighbor), or the free education that benefits all of us (even those who can't afford private school) just by being available. </div>
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It can be as simple as voting: exercising the right and responsibility to participate in decisions that affect your environment. </div>
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I want the environment I live in to be full of educated people who make decisions based on something more substantial than propaganda. I think those who do the teaching need to be excellently educated themselves, and compensated well for their particular skill set (good teachers are a combination of motivator, multi-subject expert, public speaker, counselor, cat-wrangler, and magician...I decidedly do NOT have that particular set of skills). </div>
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So yeah, I'm good with a school levy that provides better education and better educators with well funded programs. AND pensions. Bring on the smart populace. </div>
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End rant. </div>
Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-22468619172900592212018-08-15T09:46:00.000-05:002018-08-15T09:46:13.508-05:00I Regret That Email, Just A LittleI opened an email yesterday in my phone. <div>
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Writing that sentence is weird. I'm a tail-end GenXer...that means it was a HUGE deal for me to get a regular old corded phone in my room as a teenager. Email was still a newish thing in schools/colleges when I went to UMD as a freshman; it was there and we all used it for fun, but nothing class-related. The year after I graduated college was the first to issue computers to incoming freshmen in addition to computer labs as part of the semester fees. If you're too young to remember any of that and wonder what sort of "back in the olden days" I'm talking about, don't worry: pretty soon that'll be in history classes. But 20 year old me would've had utterly no clue how I could check email on any phone. </div>
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I'm wandering today: I'm trying a new sort of non-Starbucks-addiction coffee with a nifty cold-brew carafe thingy. Apparently sugar rush of a mocha hits faster than the caffeine, so I'm getting used to a longer fog since this is sans all extras. Incidentally, Ragnar is lying on the office floor next to me eating the cardboard box for the carafe. Since his teeth are full of cardboard instead of sheetrock, I'm ignoring it. </div>
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So...yesterday evening I opened an email in my phone for a retailer I very occasionally purchase from but usually just browse the paper catalog. </div>
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This morning I have 2 follow up emails from them, 8 hours apart, saying "did you see something you liked?" and "we noticed you were looking: don't forget". What the actual fuck, creepy catalog retailer? I mean, I know there is ZERO privacy on the interwebz, and that what you put out there is there forever even if you try to take it down, and that the NSA is watching all data. Whatever. I figure I could choose not to participate. But retail stalker emails showing exactly the last thing you looked at on their website, asking if you forgot your purchase, feels more like one of those bad perfume salespeople at the mall chasing you. She's wearing WAY too much of her own product and too-bright lipstick bleeding over the edges of her lipline or on her teeth, and following you three stores down the hall spraying that shit on the back of your head screaming "but you wore some, you MUST want to buy...I NEED A SALE!" </div>
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This is why I keep my yahoo address for online shopping. And blogs. And maybe I'm just old...except I never liked the approaches from pushy lotion and perfume kiosk people at the mall either. </div>
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Ragnar just left the room and it's suspiciously silent downstairs. <sigh> I should go check on the status of the walls. </sigh></div>
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Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5330584.post-39649837508240523362018-07-28T17:54:00.001-05:002018-07-28T17:54:06.764-05:00Book Review: Circe by Madeline MillerI have some educational background in mythology, so I'll usually give anything <i>Illiad </i>or <i>Odyssey </i>themed a chance. I'm a fan of Greek myths because they're so varied: Greek deities of all levels are a tapestry of virtues and flaws that more accurately reflect the capriciousness of an immortal being's attention to humans. I also (right or wrong) tend toward being a terrible book snob, and I know it. My reading list is long, and I'm picky, so I don't waste time anymore on books that don't meet high expectations right away. If I'm not hooked by the end of the second chapter, I will have zero remorse about setting a book aside and moving on. <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/CIRCE-New-York-Times-bestseller-ebook/dp/B074M5TLLJ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1532816971&sr=8-1&keywords=circe+novel" target="_blank">Circe </a></i>hooked me on page one.<br />
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If you don't recall the backstory, Circe is the sorceress on an island in the Aegean who turns Odysseus' men to pigs and has a year-long affair with the Greek hero before sending him back to Ithaca. Retellings the Odysseus myth vary in the treatment of Circe: sometimes she's a benevolent being who treats his men unfairly and is convinced to be nice by falling in love with the hero. Sometimes she's a wicked and powerful witch, terrifying in her malicious treatment of men after gaining a reputation of turning them into pigs, until Odysseus "tames" her. <br />
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Miller's retelling is the biography of a minor goddess, daughter of Helios (the Titan who is literally the sun in the sky) and one of Oceanus's (Titan of...you guessed it, the Ocean) daughters, a nymph. In this version, Circe is the unremarkable and emotionally abused sibling of her sister and two brothers, all of whom go on to do relatively famous deeds. Circe is portrayed as being too naive and too trusting of her family, and is abused for having zero power. Even her voice is considered horrid; she's often told to be quiet because of the tonal quality. Her voice sounds more human than immortal, and it's grating to immortal ears. In every way, Circe's "childhood", or perhaps more accurately her first few hundred years, is an exercise in making her as invisible as possible.<br />
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It is in her loneliness that she turns to the friendship of a mortal sailor. She falls in love and wants to find a way to stay together, and turns to forbidden secret herbs rumored to be magic. The resulting mess reveals her for what she is: a witch. A woman without specific magical powers who can gain non-divine power through knowledge, learning, and herbs provided by Gaia herself. Being neither Titan nor Olympian in her power, Circe is considered an unknown, and therefore a threat, by Zeus. When she publicly admits her witchcraft and abilities, she becomes the witch scapegoat: banished forever to her island while her siblings, who posses the same powers, become famous in their own ways.<br />
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Madeline Miller does an excellent job of creating a general attitude of casual dismissal of humanity by the the Olympians, Titans, and other immortals. They are as capricious, selfish, and callous as one might think a being who becomes bored over millennia could be. Circe, then, is set up from the beginning as an outsider simply by carrying something the rest of her family don't have at all: an air of humanity. I love this character. I love that over the course of the book she experiences every human emotion a woman can feel and learns to exert her independence and power for herself as she grows. Circe is not a fully formed "perfect" being like the rest of the immortals: she learns, suffers, and grows over time. She is not content to just be the mousy outcast her family of origin paint her to be. <br />
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Circe's circumstances aren't those of the mythic hero, out of touch with the reader's experience: she yearns for companionship, love, family, and friendship. Yet because she's immortal, she also touches other myths both surrounding the fall of Troy, <a href="https://nopithyphrase.blogspot.com/2015/01/mythic-monday-boy-who-flew-too-high.html" target="_blank">Daedalus and Icarus</a>, <a href="https://nopithyphrase.blogspot.com/2015/07/mythic-monday-scylla-charybdis-part-1.html" target="_blank">Scylla </a>and <a href="https://nopithyphrase.blogspot.com/2015/07/mythic-monday-scylla-and-charybdis-part.html" target="_blank">Charybdis</a>, the Golden Fleece, the <a href="https://nopithyphrase.blogspot.com/2014/06/mythic-monday-minotaur.html" target="_blank">Minotaur</a>, and many others. Even in her isolation, Circe's world has a vastness beyond her little island and helps the reader with some sense of time. News of the world is cleverly brought to Circe via an ongoing casual affair with Hermes, the Messenger God who stops in occasionally for a gossip-and-sex visit.<br />
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Miller's writing is utterly enjoyable. She's lyrical in a way that ties Circe to the feel of other Greek myths. In relating the death of Daedalus, Circe says: <i>"I had no right to claim him, I knew it. But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me."</i> (<i>Circe</i>, Hachette Books, 2018) Every time I read that line, I get goosebumps. That's a rare thing for me, and I love Madeline Miller for it.<br />
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The Odysseus tale occurs about midway through the book, which is fitting considering her year with him is only a blip in an eternity for Circe. That year has lasting consequences, however, and some interesting twists as time passes. Miller's portrayal of the sailors, Odysseus, and their relationship is so much more human than the myth. It's wonderful, and it sets the stage for the final third of the story with multiple threads that tie together later.<br />
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You'd think covering so long a life would become tedious, but Circe's journey from the outcast nymph to powerful sorceress to...well, without spoilers I can say the satisfying resolution of her tale... is absolutely captivating. I was engrossed. I'll re-read this often.Jesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04337112642964833390noreply@blogger.com0