God Jul. It's ok to take a break.

It's two days until the winter solstice (well, in the Northern hemisphere, anyway), and five days to Christmas Eve. Various cable channels are all about Christmas movies. Main streets in my city are lit with non-denominational decorations - white and multi-colored lights on various trees, big bright snowflakes hanging from streetlamps, evergreens in the public areas hold stars and winking bits of color.

Parking lots in shopping areas stay crowded until late. The frenzy of holiday grocery and gift shopping creates an anxious energy and a noticeable lack of "seasonal good will". Company, school, and extended family holiday doings take extra time out of schedules, increasing the frenetic pace right along with the feelings evoked (whether they be fun, obligation-stress, amusement, energizing excitement, love, or pure painful enduring).

Some folk utterly adore this time of year for exactly that frenetic pace, for seeing friends and family they haven't seen in a year, for the grand panoply of holiday shopping. Some folk feel the weight of all the social shenanigans, schedulus-interruptus, and the deepening darkness like a bone-crushing slab of obligation. And then, there are all the people along the spectrum between the two. 

Socially, "light" during the Solstice manifests with all the gift shopping, fancy dinners, exchanges of treats, decorating trees, lighting candles, and all the work/family parties that give a framework of community. Companionship. A way to battle the weight of the dark. It's the dark season, after all, and no matter which religion (if any) you claim as yours the theme of this week of the year is consistently a need for light.

It's ok to take a break from all the craziness if you need it. Use that lovely concept of hygge: relax just a little and think or read a book or watch a movie or just REST. Sleep extra to fend off the viruses all those adorable germ-carrying children carry around with them. Drink a little tea on the non-party days to counter all those awesome drinks. Spend some time sweating physically (outside, at the gym, with your romantic partner...whatever works) to burn off the excellent treats. Finding a little balance, saying no when you need to, is all ok. Really. Relaxing a little gives you an opportunity to catch your breath and stay healthy in all the ways.

The weeks around the longest night give us a pause in regularly scheduled days between the end of one year and the beginning of the next. Whether you enjoy or loathe this season for the solitude, for family gatherings, for parties and glitz, for gift giving and receiving, for the spectacle: it's a good time to consider what really matters to you and to your life. And what's been bothering you: those things you've pushed off for the superfun season's sake.

Shadows are so scary, aren't they? Creatures live there, in the dim corners of the room untouched by the Christmas Tree lights. Loneliness lurks there, among the deep quiet after the sun goes down. Seasonal depression reaches out from under the bed or the unlit closet. So much of the activity this time of year is attempting to drive the shadows away, but we learn over and over in our lives that facing those fears is the way to kill them. Eleanor Roosevelt said we should do one thing every day that scares us...and change of any kind is uncomfortable. I use this time of year for evaluating my shadows: which ones could be let go? Which ones should be embraced as a healthy part of me, or needs some help to heal and remove? What clutter can I clear? 

Thinking about what to push out and what to pull into your universe when the light returns after the 21st gives you time to toss out the garbage in your head and move forward, because starting on December 22nd the light will come back. The annual pause in time will give way to all the potential of the next year.

Isn't that what the whole New Year Resolution thing is all about?

Lo There.

Thank you Chewy, for spending most of your life here with us. We were lucky.  

When you see Thor, tell him I miss him, too. 

Dear Death: I See You Here

This is not a funny post. Today was a bad day. My vet told me to do a good day/bad day jar for a couple of weeks, but I don't really need it.

Death is stalking my household.

Thanatos waits patiently in the shadowed corners of my living room while we watch movies and bark quietly at neighborhood kids or invisible monsters in the back yard. Badb is hanging out cross-legged on the floor under a desk in my office, casually flipping through books in my library, content but staying close.

If I'm lucky. Persephone is working on a new spot with Thor: one with enough toys that they can steal from each other again.

I know the sensation of Death lingering in my house. I've done this already.

We are getting to the point that "tired" is more than just sleeping between meals and an exhausting barking session. It's a look in the eyes, a distinct need for comfort that forces failing legs to keep trying to push 110lbs up the stairs so he can sleep near a person. It's the sad expression when I pick up the leash, and half-hearted attempt to get up only to lie next to the open door, because the urge to pee isn't strong enough to bother going out even though it's been nearly 12 hours.

He's not ready, but I think we're within a week or two now. Taking responsibility for another living creature is a double edged razor. The vet says the timing is up to me. What that really means is I'm no longer monitoring and caring for Chewy to provide him with quality of life, but quality of death. Some would argue there are many reasons to make that choice on his behalf - send him on before he suffers, the expense involved in waiting, the disruption to my life, moving on.

Responsibility is a heavy burden because it's SUPPOSED to be heavy. Who the hell am I to determine how much of his life to cut off? People who bring up the expense involved are talking a bout the vet bills, the pills, the time involved in waiting for him to struggle back inside twice a day. But the real expense is the waiting, the burden of choosing when to invite Death formally instead of letting her hang out, because at some point the suffering is just enough. But I am only a caretaker: Chewy will let me know when he hits that point. Thor did.

We, people, humans, are so afraid of Death visiting that we'll do damn near anything to avoid it. Dogs are different. They'll fight to survive until it's time, and when it's time they're just...ready. They've done their jobs here, they've loved and protected and forgiven, and they let you know they're ok.

My vet is truly a fantastic man. When we let Thor go, he warned me what might happen - convulsions, bodily fluids, scary and awful struggling against the soul slipping from the body. He told me so I wouldn't be surprised, so I could stay in the room and be a comfort instead of a basket case. NONE of that happened with him - in fact, he give a little sigh of relief and just slipped off his body like an uncomfortable jacket that's gotten too tight.

I want that for Chewy, too. I want an easy death that relieves him from his broken down body and gives him freedom to bark at ALL THE THINGS. I want Thanatos to give him quiet sleep, and Badb to take him on a long, leisurely walk. There's always the chance that won't happen, that his passing will be somehow scarring. I hope not.

I suppose I'll find out in the next couple of weeks, because I know this countdown.

He stole a loaf of bread today while I got coffee. He was so proud of reaching it I can't even be all that mad, even though it was MINE MINE MINE. Cheeseburgers and treats will be the order of the days ahead, and a lot of sitting in the grass so he can just hang out and do what he loves best - watching over the neighborhood. Until it's time to stop.

Yes, I could say Tuesday is the day and we could be done and save me the emotional stress of Death becoming my temporary roommate. But that's not my job here. I'm not afraid to wait with him. I'm not afraid to make the decision or lie with him on the floor in the vet's office, or let him go.

When it's time, I will ask Death to walk my dog gently, and kindly request no more visits for a long while. Until then, we're sitting in companionable quiet, listening to Chewy's quiet breathing while he dreams.

How To Get Out of Babysitting: 101

Actual conversation with my sister (Han and Evil's mom) via text message. Of course I could've just posted the screenshot, but then anonymity for both my sister and Han would be lost. Plus, I MUST fix some of the text shorthand, because I'm a nerd and it drives me nuts how people don't spell out actual words in text.

I know, I know: emojis and shorthand are their own languages now...isn't it interesting how the modern equivalent of Egyptian Hieroglyphs are coming back as a real language through texting?

Um. Anyway...conversation as follows (edited only for privacy and incomplete words. I left the punctuation, because it makes me chuckle to imagine the over-enthusiasm).

S: Han's Actual Name Han asked me at dinner how the babies are going to get out of my belly.......

Me: You didn't show him Alien, did you?

Me: I'm no expert, but showing a 4 year old to explain birth might be bad parenting. Just sayin.

Me: Go with Aliens instead. Better movie all around. 

S: Heehee...I said we'd go to the hospital and the doc would help get them out. Then I changed the subject and said 'guess what!!! Grandpa is going to stay with you while we're at the hospital!!!!!'

S: oh good lord Jess, maybe you shouldn't babysit...*

Yeah. I babysit the kids a lot. They're my favorite. I'm pretty sure when the twins come I won't be allowed to touch them at all if Han and Evil are around.

Also, four kids under 5 all in one suburban house?

If you were wondering when the apocalypse starts, I'm pretty sure she's due sometime in March.

*As it turns out, not actually a deterrent from babysitting. Neither is giving the kiddos cherry popsicles so they look like little vampires.

Lo There Do I See My Beloved Thor

I love you, my dearest Furface. Thank you for giving me nearly 12 years of love, protection, companionship, and important lessons. You leave a crater behind, and we will miss you forever. 

May Valhalla be full of bunnies and cheeseburgers and snuggling and fetch, and may the gods watch over you. Don't nip Slepnir, honey - even you can't evade eight hooves.   

Oh Skymall...you dirty dirty bird...

I went home (to the tundra) last weekend. It was an adventure.

First, I was hit on by the dude next to me, Chad from downtown Minneapolis, on the plane. Chad insisted I'm 10 years younger than I am. Score.

For me.

He did not score.

Bummer for you, Chad, but you were quite charming and I am thoroughly amused.

And then I found THIS in Skymall, and all conversation ended, because I can't NOT MAKE INAPPROPRIATE COMMENTS.

ADULT PLUSH BALLS.
What the fuck else can possibly be said about this?

OBVIOUSLY I need the Unicorn, because my balls aren't plush enough. Or horny? And it comes with it's own pump...I mean, self pumping unicorn balls?? Come ON!

Yeah, you can see why Chad stopped talking to me. I'm a whole new level of crazypants, and maybe it's better not to get in them, dude.

So...then I spent the weekend at my Grandma's house outside of Duluth. Everyone in Houston was bitching and freaking out about 40 degree weather (OH MY GOD IT'S THE APOCALYPSE! WEAR YOUR PARKAS!!). This is what I woke up to (along with -10 degree temps) Saturday:

Ignore the rocking horse and focus on the FROSTED WINDOW.
Yeah. I was cold.

Well, Helloooooo Winter, you not-yet-welcome Fall party crasher.

During the shenanigans there was hay in an eyeball, babies held, stories told, bad songs sung (there really is no rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" that rivals my aunt singing "turn around, fart eyes" in a really wavery voice), and lots of laughing. I didn't pee my pants, but it was close. I DID wheeze and squeak and cry. My belly hurts.

And then, I got to see the kiddos.

Han was moving too damn fast for me to get a good pic, but I did spend some time working with Evil. She was somewhat unimpressed with me.

"Mother, get this thing off my head IMMEDIATELY."

Han got jealous and took my hand very earnestly, tugging me toward his room (where a 2 year old can escape the little sister who takes up Auntie Jess's attention). I was his  (CRAWL, AUNTIE JESS!) until I had to catch my flight back to toasty warm (upper 30's...it's still Houpocalypse down here: winter hats/scarves/mittens/parkas) Texas. Little dude wore me the hell out...I slept the whole flight.

I saw and spent seriously excellent time with some of my favorite people (but not all...I WILL rectify that on the next trip). People I love deeply and dearly, and whom I miss terribly and think about daily.

Y'all know who you are, dontcha? Sure ya do.

We'll be back up at Christmas...and THAT trip won't be a super secret surprise for anyone...so I'll set up a plan to hang, peeps.

In the meantime, someone buy me the adult plush unicorn balls!!

Furballs Run My Household

Shit I've said to the dogs in the past week:

But my feet are so TASTY! It's exhausting...

• Stop licking your feet.
• NO HUMPING YOUR BROTHER!
• Thor, don't bite Chewy's face when he's coming back in. Wait until he's through the door, fucker, it's COLD out there.
• DO NOT EAT THAT POOP!
• Seriously, Thor, stop eating your goddamn feet.
• It's rude to stare at my plate.
• No, you can't have anything here (pointing at plate). MINE.
• NO LICKING MY FORK, ASSHOLE!
• Uh Oh!! (note this is immediately followed by two lumbering oafs barreling into our little kitchen to clean up whatever edible bits of tasty goodness I dropped on the floor).
• Thor, I can pee on my own. I don't need your help. Wait outside.
• Godammit, I said DO NOT push the door open!
• Sigh Fine. Get your nose out of my face...I saw you eat poop earlier.
• THOR!  (followed by a pointed look from me to the dog who's foot is in his mouth. Again. He generally drops it, sighs, and stares at me forlornly).
• Chewy! NO BLOWJOBS!! Leave your brother's junk alone, dude. That's gross.
• NO HUMPING!
• Biscuit!
• Chew! Get out of the way or I'll have Luke cut off your other arm.*
• Breakfast!**
• Dinner!**

*Chewy = giant white fluffball, with teeth. Although he's unlikely to save people in his ice cave to eat later (because it's really way too much work), he'd probably enjoy an ice cave of his own. Also, he's never met a Jedi, but I imagine he'd like them. The only people he dislikes are those who run through HIS backyard and disrupt his view of the frozen tundra.

That would be root beer all over my nose. It was yummy.

Seriously, if you STILL don't get this reference, all I can say is go have a Star Wars marathon. In the proper order: IV, V, VI, I, II, III (if you must...I hated II and III, to be honest. All that horrific WHINING by Hayden Christensen...ugh).

**Both of my dogs do actually know the words "Breakfast" and "dinner." It's the best way to get them to come a-runnin if they're dawdling during a pee break. They also know "biscuit," "bath," "ball", "Furface," "treats," "cheeseburgers," "ride/car/go," "walk," "dog park," "wipe your mouth" and "use your words." Sometimes their vocabulary is entertaining. Sometimes it's irritating as hell.

Montana in a minute or less...

My sister (Han's mom) got married last weekend in her fiance's dad's backyard...in Helena, Montana.

There is one, count 'em ONE, direct flight from Minneapolis to Helena, which got us there at 11:30pm. No fancy mountain pictures to be had at that time of night, but Husband and I were greeted by this:

I SEE YOU looking for your bags...

Extra amusing if you knew I had a horrific nightmare two nights before in which I was EATEN BY A GODDAMNED MOUNTAIN LION.

WTF.

It was a whirlwind visit with my parents and grandparents, sisters, and of course Han, who is both extremely mobile and very opinionated about his efforts (meaning, get in his way and he either growls or screeches at you, both of which are hilariously fun to provoke...not that I'd ever do that).

The Boneless Boy Wonder crawling under the coffee table.

Someone may or may not have taught Han to pull on Husband's beard over the weekend.

Of course I have NO IDEA who would do such a thing.

Mwahahahahaha.

No, no, you're pronouncing it wrong. It's "whOOre"

So I live in the Land Spring Forgot. Let's just get that out of the way: it's April something-teen and we're in the middle of yet another "shnit" storm (that would be Husband's word for the rain/sleet/snow shit that's currently coating the ground, and more importantly the roads, in a layer of slushy icy crap). This is not a weather-bitching post. Honestly, even a former Northern Minnesotan like me is fucking sick of the weather-bitching.

No, this post is due to a Facebook comment I read today. "Mother Nature is a whore."

I could probably explain the reasons why I'm generally a very long-fused person when it comes to temper, but that's a totally different (and darker) story. Can we just agree that usually I can take a lot of verbal (and otherwise) irritants before I lose my cool. Except for a few things which irritate the fuck out of me. Here's the thing, my Facebook feed is FULL of pro-woman, anti-sexism, anti-slut-shaming posts lately. There's one going around about a principal in a high school who threatened to call a senior's college and tell them how bad her character is and maybe they should rethink her future there. Because she didn't go to the abstinence-only assembly where the speaker said (per Huffington Post) "if you're on birth control, your mother hates you."

What I find silly is when the same people who support stopping the BLATANT sexism are so often those who participate in the more subtle, pervasive sexism in our culture.

Whore.

Let's review the meaning of "whore" shall we? Thank you, www.Dictionary.com for this:

whore

/hɔr, hoʊr or, often, hʊər/ Show[hawr, hohr or, often, hoor]   noun, verb, whored, whor·ing.

noun

1. a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse, usually for money; prostitute; harlot; strumpet.

verb (used without object)

2. to act as a whore.

3. to consort with whores.

verb (used with object)

4. Obsolete . to make a whore of; corrupt; debauch.

 

So. One of the challenges of the English language is finding the right word to convey the emotional message to the reader. But this particular word is used SPECIFICALLY to express disgust in a woman's behavior.  Not a man's behavior. Only women, and only with the most demeaning intent. After all, you move further down the degradation ladder when you go from slut to whore, right?

 

Honestly, I've considered this topic before. I don't find anyone, male or female, engaging in "promiscuous sexual intercourse" as less "moral" or any less "respectable" as me. I find that particular trait to be the MOST idiotic thing to judge in a person... WHY would I care if someone is promiscuous? It is not a sign of moral weakness, no matter what the patriarchal religious tenets teach. It can be a sign of self-loathing, but not always. And I'm not going to assume I know what's going on in someone's head. Maybe they just really like sex, for crying out loud.

 

I don't care if anyone, male or female, chooses to have any sort of sexual contact for money unless they're forced into it (in which case I'd gladly . And I don't judge those who've done it because they had to (whether physically forced, emotionally forced, or financially desperate). Why would I? People do what they need to in order to survive, and not everyone's life is as fucking rosy or happy as those portrayed in the media (social or otherwise).

 

This particular comment was a "damn it, fucking snow AGAIN" frustration. But you know, on days like today, when the weather is utterly unpredictable, the ONLY reason I survive is because I have neat things available like indoor heat and grocery stores. Mother Nature could easily rip my head off, in every sense of the word.

If, as a society, we have no respect for even the natural/supernatural forces that we identify as female, are we not including sexism and contempt for the female at our most base and subconscious level? I suppose it's the Pagan-ness in me that gets irked at derogatory terms lobbed around, even though Mother Nature likely doesn't give a hoot what any of us think.

Plus, honestly, as a Pagan I'm pretty sure I wouldn't call any force in the world capable of burying me in any sort of natural disaster a derogatory term.

Dude, you JUST NEVER KNOW.

 

Ok so most of this post was a feminist rant. It's true. If you're going to ignore all the other things I said, at least pronounce the word the fun way. I mean really, using a ridiculous word deserves a ridiculous pronunciation, and for that I refer you to Captains William F. Call and Augustus McRae in Lonesome Dove... who say "whoore" (with the "oo" in the middle) as fact and in appreciation.

If whoore doesn't do it for you, try "Harlot" or "strumpet." Expand your insult ability: both are much more colorful words if you're going to go all Biblically judgmental on any female's sexual proclivities just because you're not happy with her behavior.

To contrast, the best weather-bitching I've seen all week was "everyone likes to sleep in once in a while. But I think it's time to get Mother Nature an alarm clock."

Seriously, Lady...it's cold here and I'm really tired of ice. I know you forgot about Minnesota, but could you send Spring now?

Phoning it in: Vengeful Turkey (again)

It's nearly Thanksgiving and I've been considering family, things for which I'm thankful, and all that sentimental bullshit.

And I'm writing NONE of it here, because I'm also busy as hell right now at home. I'll try to put a real post up over the weekend. In the meantime, something I posted originally a couple years ago about one of my favorite Thanksgiving memories.

Miss you, Grandpa.

I come from a large extended family: my mom's the oldest of eight, dad's the oldest of seven. Holidays at my grandma Kit's house (mom's side) are crazy: cousins, animals, aunts and uncles all running haywire. Stories are told and retold, children are in and out of the house all day followed by the dogs, cats are hiding in terror, and horses are hitched up for rounds of sleigh rides. It's all loud insanity and it's wonderful.
When I was about five my grandparents lived on a large farm in northern Minnesota, outside of Cloquet. It was more than a hobby farm, less than a farm-for-a-living spread. After all, they had seven kids still at home (four of them teenage boys) to feed so anything they could supply from the farm was much more cost effective for a second grade teacher and a heavy equipment driver for the county. In addition to the herd of horses, cats and dogs for fun, I remember cows, chickens, goats, sheep, guinea hens, and turkeys. There were probably other random animals from time to time...I know one of my aunts had a pet raccoon for a while.

One turkey in particular took an instant disliking to my small five-year-old form. He decided I was a blonde devil and for months I couldn't walk near the barn without him attacking. In case you didn't know, 25lb turkeys fully live and loaded have VERY STRONG wings: he'd extend them out to each side and run at me, screeching and beating his wings at me until I was cornered against the barn. I loathed that stupid bird. My aunt Elyse, only seven years older than me, had to beat him away from me with a big stick. That bastard gave me nightmares every time I stayed at Grandmas for the entire summer.

Thanksgiving came and we were all sitting around the large kitchen table. It was a cacaphony of children and adults all talking at once, passing food, slipping treats to the dogs under the table, and laughing. I, being the oldest (and therefore exalted) grandchild, sat next to my Grandpa, a big, gruff man who was really a big softie with the grandkids. He watched me take a big bite of turkey and waited until I swallowed. Then he told me that was the big nasty tom from the barn. To this day I think he was telling me just to see how I'd react, being a girl mostly sheltered from the more unpleasant farm duties (we never went there on butchering day after the chicken incident).

I cheered and asked for more.

Home Again. Jiggy.

Husband was released from prison the hospital yesterday: 2 months to the date since the drunk asshole in a borrowed SUV with SHITTY INSURANCE plowed into the motorcycle...yeah, I'm not bitter at all. But he's home, he's allowed to start working with crutches, and he managed it nearly three weeks earlier than we'd originally thought.

AND he's home for our 9th anniversary, which is (of course) Halloween.

My sister EVER so kindly bought him a hideous lovely brass bell, the kind you see on a dry cleaner's counter. To be helpful, I'm sure. So he can get my attention (intubation is HELL on vocal cords...he's been significantly lower-volumed since the accident) if I'm upstairs and he's in the living room.

Because she hates me. And wants revenge for my snarky comments about my nephew's night-owl tendencies being karma for HER having days and nights mixed up as a baby. I was four...I remember. "But she's helpful," you may say... well...I would agree except for the evil glee in her eye. I suppose that could be the glassy Han-won't-let-me-sleep effect, but I doubt it. Evil glee all the way.

Unfortunately, the bell was lost.

MORE unfortunately...that fucking thing is lost SOMEWHERE IN MY TRUCK.

That's right...the goddamn "help me now" bell randomly dings from the dog-fur-filled-recesses of my truck, and I can't find it.

On the bright side, neither can Husband.

Mwahahahaha.

Random Shit: Because I Still Can't Write A Real Post

The weekend was a flurry of hospital time, family time (parents are heading back to California today, because they're assholes who live where it's warm), and errands. I suck at blogging lately, it's true.

I spent quite a bit of time surfing facebook in the dark because Husband was napping and I couldn't turn the goddamn light on to read. I found this and was amused:




I see you looking with your judgy mcjudgerton pants on.

In other random news: 

  

• Today is his birthday: husband is spoiled rotten and getting an iPad to entertain him for his last month in the hospital (he's aware of this gift already). I still have to do SOMETHING though, right? So his birthday card  is AWESOME. And not just because it has Indiana Jones on the front page...because it plays the goddamn Indiana Jones THEME. Mwahahaha.

• My new FABULOUSLY cute nephew, Harrison, who is a whopping 14 days old today, peed in his own face recently. Hey, it takes time to work out the kinks in a brand-spankin-new body, right? I mean, he hasn't even discovered his own fingers yet (as evidenced by his inability to stop from smacking himself in the face while flailing). That's right people, the boy will be "Han" to me from now on. Which is probably less psychologically damaging to his future 16 year-old self than "Sprinkle" don't you think?  



I SHOT FIRST!

Update: This was going to be a real post, but then there was an angry dog. And Bellydancing Chewbaccas.

There's a real post coming, and the next flash fiction entry for my Seven Deadly Sins project (which was sidetracked by broken pelvis scaffolding and hospitals). In the meantime:

My sister is a HUGE Viking's fan.

I'm not a football fan in general (although I AM quite a fan of Vikings punter Chris Kluwe, but that's a different post)... apparently neither is my sister's Chihuahua, Kiki.



Fuck. You. All.

You're welcome.
Also, I saw this today, and I CAN'T UNSEE IT. Therefore, so shall you:

My uterus is expired, because I say so.

This is not one of those "I must justify why I'm not having kids" posts. Mostly, because I don't generally justify my choices to anyone but Husband (because he has to gets to live with me).

My impending nephew's estimated arrival is next month already. I make it sound like he's being delivered by a DHL truck or UPS guy...indeed, I'm sure my sister and her S.O. would be THRILLED* if a truck driver delivered their spawn.

I am excited as hell to be an aunt again, and am already spoiling him rotten with clothes and toys. Mwahahaha. We haven't even gotten to mountain dew and candy during babysitting..I mean...noisy toys for birthdays/Christmases/fun presents...I mean...NEVER MIND. Hopefully my sister won't read this anytime soon, or ignore it altogether (seriously, it's your best option).

I never had a burning desire to be a mother. Nearly all of my friends (of both sexes and all orientations) knew "someday" they'd have kids, I knew I wouldn't. No, really:  in elementary school I wrote short stories about bears ripping the arms off of people and hated playing with dolls. I'm just not driven by the biological clock my friends talked about. Many of them said (often in a condescending or smug "I know more than you" tone, which made me want to punch them in the face...with love, of course) that "eventually you'll be DYING to have one and you'll change your mind," or even better: "but you'd be such a great mom!" Whatever THAT means.

Yeah. Hasn't happened yet. Not when there are so many Verruca Salts in public, providing excellent birth control tantrums that keep me happily swallowing my pill each night.

As it happens, both of us generally adore kids. Husband is one of those weird baby-whisperer types: they immediately fall asleep, content, when he picks them up.
It's fucking creepy, honestly. I think he gives off a secret baby-sleep-gas or something.

The annoying thing is, I always said I'd never get married, but then I met Husband and my devious (and deviant) heart did a 180... and I ended up married. Having changed my mind about the merits of a committed, married relationship I wanted to give myself wiggle room afterward in case my uterus pulled a similar 180 and demanded spawn (and peeing 7,000 times a day and puking for 3-6 months, both of which I already do thanks to a bladder the size of a peanut and allergies that hit hard from April -October).

After all, I try to be open minded and accepting of growth and change . I hear you snickering: I didn't say it always WORKED, just that I TRY to be open to change. Judging judger.

Anyway, I told myself we could discuss and change our minds until I turn 35**, but after that I'm done and the factory's CLOSED. There are multiple reasons for my arbitrary cut-off date, both logical and not, but this isn't really about the reasons...it's about the door closing. See, I hit that milestone this month, and I'll admit it came with a momentary twinge of concern. Will I regret not having babies someday when I'm an old fart and everyone else is showing off their grandchildren in the home? I don't feel inferior or lonely or less-than-a-woman for not having babies, so I don't think so.

I have an awesome husband and a life filled with love. I'm happy to leave motherhood to those who really ache to be moms. I wrote here a while back about the importance of aunts/uncles/adult role models, during a time when I was still considering whether I wanted to change my mind and have children. Ultimately, I'm still ok with my decisions. I'm still happy being an aunt the kids can come to when they're too embarrassed or scared to talk to their parents. And I still plan on spoiling OPK as often as possible.

*In case you didn't catch it, this is sarcasm
** Yes, I do understand that I could still have a perfectly healthy baby after 35. I have friends who did exactly that. I didn't say it wasn't an arbitrary number: it's MY number.

WTF Weekend

Friday afternoon I stopped at The Company Which Must Not Be Named (ps: I'm not allowed to talk about them per my disgustingly paltry severance agreement when I got laid off last fall). The office is on my way home, and I still have fabulous friends working there...I stopped after 4:30 on a Friday to drop off a little present for one of them, because I think random presents are neat even when they're silly penguin notebooks. And I'm babbling...moving on.

Anyway, I was hanging out in the Support room with the cool kids and the Support Manager greeted me with "Jess, don't you want to come back? PLEASE? You can configure (system name here) for us again...I even have spot for you!" Because I adore said support manager I kindly said thanks-but-no, I like my new gig, and moved on to other topics. Little did I know the error of that decision to stay and chat.

I tried to avoid seeing any OTHER former co-workers, my old boss in particular, because...well...let's just say she and I didn't get along well and leave it at that, shall we?

Of COURSE she walked into the support room. Of COURSE she stopped dead and stared at me for a full awkward second or two. Seeing as she personally chose to lay me off (never mind less experienced BAs who made more $$ than me were kept on...the whole not-getting-along thing, you know), I was FUCKING FLOORED when she tried to give me a big hug (AWKWARD, particularly since I didn't move and definitely didn't return the hug), asked how I'm doing, and "don't you want to come back and configure for me?"

To my credit, I did NOT laugh in her face or say she couldn't possibly afford me (because there's no amount of money they could pay to get me to work for that woman go back to traveling). Instead I asked about her kids every time she tried to find out where I work now and if I like it, and tried to give her absolutely no info about me. The whole encounter was vindicating (haHA! You DID fuck up letting me go), amusing, and really really awkward.

So, followed up that experience with a trip to see Jeff Dunham (aka Jefa-fa dunHAM...dot COM) at Mystic Lake Casino. First, let's discuss the location of this venue. I THOUGHT the tickets were for the auditorium (inside the casino) when I bought them. Oh no, they were outside in the makeshift amphitheater. Which means there's no decent view to be had (and to be fair I was cheap and didn't buy the expensive tickets anyway). Mystic Lake, however, decided it'd be a GREAT idea to make concert-goers park about a mile away from the Amphitheater (not exaggerating here, folks) and force them to walk through the casino on the way to/from the show. Husband and I were so irritated at this (it was hot out that day, fuckers!) we didn't go back to play the Princess Bride slot machines, even though I really want to...what IS the Fezzik bonus??

We finally found our seats out on the grass. The portable stadium-style seats were pretty uncomfortable for us tall folk, and the one shortie with us couldn't reach her feet to the ground when she sat and had a hard time seeing through the crowd in front of us. But that's ok...it was too far to see Jeff and the puppets anyway (if you don't know, Jeff Dunham is a ventriloquist comedian whose Comedy Central specials are funny as hell). He started late (of course). I'll say this: there were a few times he made me laugh to tears. There were also quite a few totally bombed jokes: he tried out some new material that just didn't go well (don't know if it was the MN audience or just not funny). At one point I wondered if he realized that the reservation has its own police force...and thought they better have a good sense of humor or he might not get off the res...there were some pretty bad Indian jokes.

If that wasn't enough excitement, I took my sister up to my Grandma's for her baby shower, which consisted of a day sitting around the kitchen table mostly talking about poop bracketed by three hours in the car each way.

Yesterday I napped. I still haven't recovered...the introvert is screeching at me to hide in my office and write, away from actual live breathing people and accompanied only by the ones in my imagination. We'll see how much of that I can pull off this week.

My knee is no longer jerking.

It took me a few days to think through my reactions to the Aurora, CO shootings and NOT write a knee-jerk-reaction post. I saw much of the following (in a zillion variations) over the weekend on Twitter, Facebook, and various news outlets:

1) "Why were there children at an R-rated movie at midnight anyway?"
2) "This is why we need to ban all guns!"
3) Add security to movie theaters!
4) Politicians using the shootings as a platform to speak for or against guns, for or against religion, etc.
Let's cover all four, shall we?

1) Today there are a bunch of "don't blame the victim!" posts and articles on blogs, CNN, and HuffPo. The thing is, while asking why children were in the theater in the first place is indeed blaming the victim, I can't claim I didn't think the EXACT SAME THING when I first heard a 3 month old was injured and a 6 year old shot. I spent quite a bit of time considering why that was the first thought that popped into my head, because in general I loathe when parents bring toddlers/babies into an adult movie. Not because babies distract me: because it's not good for them. I've asked pediatricians in the past: movie theaters are BAD BAD BAD for babies: it's too loud for their little eardrums can cause hearing damage. It's overly stimulating, and there are a myriad of viruses/germs floating around. I can't help thinking all those things whenver I see babies and toddlers in a midnight R rated showing (and it happens a lot), so it popped in my head right away. However, I immediately killed off that thought, because it has nothing to do with the victims of the shooting. Really. And blaming the parents for their kids getting shot is just mean.

My not-professional-at-all opinion why so many people went there first: it's easier to focus on one small, trivial detail than it is to face the bigger horror. Because what happened is terrifying, it could happen anywhere, and there's no way to stop it, predict it, or prevent against it. Therefore, compartmentalizing the entire tragedy and thinking "maybe the kids wouldn't have been hurt if they hadn't been there" is a knee-jerk reaction. You may not be able to stop the asshole thoughts from popping in your head, but you don't have to share them, either. Have a little self control.

2) Gun control (and the lack thereof) are ridiculous at this stage of the grief process. And make no mistake: the nation is in shock: anger and grieving are part of the national process. However, jumping on the "BAN GUNS" or "GIVE EVERYONE GUNS" bandwagon right now is insensitive and stupid. It does NOTHING for the victims, it doesn't bring justice or stop the shooter today, and it doesn't actually get anything accomplished at this stage. It's fucking RUDE to start politicizing before the victims families are even notified, and all the media "debates" (Piers Morgan, I'm looking at you) about whether gun control would've prevented the shootings is nothing more than using a tragedy to get ratings. Gun control is a sticky issue in this country with many valid reasons on both sides of the fence (and good lordy that's a post of its own, so that's all I'll toss out there for now).
3) This morning MN news announced new "security" measures in local theaters, including no face masks, no fake weapons (as part of costumes), and no "costumes that make patrons uncomfortable.) I find this ineffectual and ridiculous, as well as COMPLETELY open to anyone's interpretation of "uncomfortable." No fake weapons? Sure. What about real ones (MN has conceal and carry laws)?
4) Using the shooting to expound a hate-filled discussion by people angry and helpless to do anything to assist the victims only creates a national feeling of fear and hate. Is a national lynch mob really what we need right now? A Texas representative immediately used the shooting NOT to say he was sorry for the families and victims, but to immediately attack non-Christians by saying "not believing in God allowed this to happen." Really, asshole? I didn't pray enough/he's an atheist/she's a Buddhist so we're to blame for this? Fuck you.  That's just the worst level of slimy politicking possible. 

Knee-jerk reactions don't need to be shared with the world, particularly if they're asshole-blame-the-victim responses. No one expects that level of tragedy. This situation is heartbreaking and terrifying to me because a fanatic cannot be stopped, and this guy is as much a fanatic as the Norway shooter a year ago. Label him insane, psychopathic, evil...whatever label he ends up with after psychoanalysts are done with him, no one could've predicted this guy would go into a crowded theater in full body armor and start killing people. Killers like this are NOT LOGICAL, they have no empathy, they have no feeling of responsibility or respect to their fellow humans. That makes them unpredictable, vicious, and violent. What if the terrifying reality is that there is no way to make sense out of him? What if there IS no way to logically predict or prevent these actions? What if there is no cause, other than the shooter's own nature?

It's easy to try to assign blame: blame the victims for being there, blame the theaters for allowing him in, blame society for allowing guns or removing God or whatever you want. Every instance of blame avoids the real issue: a man for reasons of his own decided to take lives, create chaos, and ruin our sense of security. HE'S to blame for this, and he should be punished as well as permanently removed from society so he can never harm another person again. How about instead of spreading negativity and nastiness, we all try to do something REAL to help, like paying medical bills or taking care of the victims' houses or funeral costs, or blocking the asshole Westboro picketers from the area? That's positive and helpful.

In the meantime, all my thoughts are with the victims and their families, who were in no way at fault for this asshole's rampage and in no way deserved what happened. I hope the survivors are able to heal and move on as best they can.

Wolverines are real and they don't melt at the zoo.

Last weekend we took my cousins to Valleyfair (the local attempt at a Six Flags) and the Minnesota Zoo. Last weekend the heat index was eighty-bazillion degrees* and you needed gills to breathe. It was a whirlwind of teenage-girl-excitement, highlights listed here:

A pretty cute Brazilian boy asking me for the fifteen-year-old's name saying "she's beautiful" and following her (possibly stalking) through Valleyfair. Said boy was nineteen, and my cousin was ridiculously gorgeous in her inappropriately-tiny bikini. Sigh. I thanked the Gods yet again that I don't have kids after worrying about whether she could fend off an attack herself for two hours. Yes, I may be paranoid.

Also, I burned my scalp, but my legs are still fishbelly white. So I'm itching my head like a madwoman but could blind anyone looking at me in a swimsuit. I apologize for the horrible grammar in the last sentence...I have no excuses.

We discovered a FABULOUS squid-eating-your-head hat at the gift shop, which has absolutely NOTHING to do with Valleyfair (particularly since Minnesota is pretty goddamn far from any ocean). I tweeted it to The Bloggess. Unfortunately I suck at twitter in general...I'm not even sure I did it right, to be honest. I'm sort of a perfect storm of technology fail.

We took the girls to have sushi and Japanese food at a local Teppenyaki place. The fifteen year old loved hers...the thirteen year old made an ishy-face to everything except the noodles and fried rice. Anyway, the check came and we didn't have our usual argument over who had to pay (or, who had to sign the credit card slip, since it all comes from the same place): my husband took it. And did his math wrong. And gave the server a 32% tip. He felt too bad to tell the very excited waitress "no, I meant to give you less." I knew none of this, so when waitress stopped me to say thank you and "you make me SO Happy" I was a little weirded out. Ah well, in the scheme of things we managed to accidentally make someone's day, so that's neat.

Thanks to my extra weight and my pasty-white Norwegian heritage, I spent the entire time on the Northern Trail at the MN Zoo with a tomato-red face and a dripping forehead. Who else can claim to have a dripping forehead? I looked like a heavy chef in one of the Food Network contest shows who drip sweat into their masterpieces and offer the dishes to the judges, only were I a judge I'd reject any sweat-laden dish on principle alone. Really people, you have to use different cutting boards for raw and cooked meat and you can't wipe your fucking face so your forehead juice doesn't get in the potatoes? It's possible the tomato-redness was leftover scalpburn from Valleyfair.

Anyway, my husband thought I was about to have heatstroke (I felt FINE people, just a hot and squishy, but no signs of actual heat exhaustion) and bought me water by the camel pens. Even the damn camels looked at me all judgy from the middle of their pond, because the humid MN summer isn't as comfy for them as desert heat so they were all lounging in the water. Mocking me. Bitches.

I told him the sweat was fat melting and let's get going before he embarrasses me further, but damn if I didn't catch him watching me until we got back into the AC. It's not love, people..it's his determination NOT to have to carry his wife back to the car. Also, I was fine. Sheesh.

Overheard by a woman at LEAST my age who should fucking know better (thanks you public education? I don't know):  "You mean Wolverines are real? I thought that was just the guy from Xmen!" I may have snickered too loud when she said "No really, I thought it was a fictional guy." Luckily, I was still melting so probably looked way too slimy to bother fighting. I mean really, I could've slid out of anyone's grip at that point. And sweated on them. Gross.

*maybe the temp was actually around 93 with a high humidity...you know what? It felt like eighty-bazillion, so I'm sticking with that. I'm not a scientist, after all.

Encounters of the Weird Kind...

Random weird shit from Girls' Weekend 2012:

 

•  I may have been mistaken for a prostitute, but I'm not sure.
• Dinner at Dick's Last Resort in the Mall of America, where the servers are snarky and rude...and yet pretty damn hilarious.
• "I ate soup" was sent by one of the men in response to a "you should sext me" prompt.
• Filthy sexts received during dinner by one of the girls were shared with the group. Envy and giggles commenced.
• A possible zombie followed the group out of Starbucks on Nicollet Mall.* 
• Discovered a neat store on 9th and Nicollet, with random curiosities and a sleepy dog.
• Unfortunately, outside said neat store was a HORRIBLE trumpet player who repeated the same four or five notes with no semblance of melody. Even the kids walking by plugged their ears. I suspect this is what caused the dog's obvious depression.
• GODIVA HAS REWARDS and we all signed up. Now I get a free truffle once a month and some sort of incentive to buy more chocolate...as though any incentive is needed. Ha.
• The importance of having a clean hole was a theme. Said in reference to someone's teeth, which really only makes this statement sillier.
• "I have a boat but it has flat tires." Yeah, it was said in conversation, but I'm still baffled.
• "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to molest you now." Said to the pregnant girl as her belly is felt up AGAIN.
• A pushing match ensues between the two molesters attempting to feel the baby kick. The baby was apparently sleeping or terrified, because he didn't even wiggle, much less show alien-hand-movement in her belly.
• We as a group are no fun, according to the smarmy man in the Homewood Suites lobby who tried to charm us into either taking him with us to a bar somewhere or, possibly, some other sort of party. His British accent was fake and he carried four bottles of water for his group, so I'm not really sure what the hell he thought he'd get out of the five of us.
• Spent too much at Baby Gap for my impending nephew. The sales girl tried to get me to get a credit card...even though I have no spawn and told her so. Snort.

There was much laughter and wine for all (except the pregnant one, who was allowed laughing but not wine). GW was a success yet again, and the people who couldn't make it this year were missed.

*"Zombie" was actually a man who appeared to be carrying something in his shirt and was rather confused and wandering...unsteadily. He looked like he'd been in a fight: he followed us out to the street where there are many cops and Mpls community outreach people, so even though I felt guilty for not helping, I know he was picked up and helped by professionals. He was altered, and I'm not sure what he was carrying around under his shirt so was uncomfortable stopping. I must still feel guilty if I need to justify my non-action. Sigh.

Things I Never Thought I'd Say Out Loud...

...until I had dogs.

• THOR! STOP humping your brother!
• Who peed on the bathroom floor?
• Dude...it's a buttless, headless monkey (much beloved/abused stuffed animal)...gross.
• Chewy, I know you have to eviscerate stuffed animals, but do you HAVE to get the guts all over the floor?
• Chewy, seriously, poop THEN wander around. You look retarded.
• DON'T STEP IN IT!! GODDAMMIT!!!
• NO HUMPING!
• Thunder is not the sky barking at you. Shut up.
• That leaf is not out to get you. Shut up.
• No, you can't rip that squirrel apart. Stay in the house.
• Oh my god, stop bitching. Your bath isn't that bad.
• Don't sniff (insert any guest's name here)'s crotch!
• Seriously, go wipe your mouth, you ishy drool machine.
• NOT ON MY LEG!!
• What the hell?? Who peed on the kitchen floor?? What's WRONG with you?
• Dude...I wouldn't do that. He's gonna bite your face off. (To Chewy while he's tormenting Thor).
• Sigh. Told you so. Come here, let's see if you still have both eyes. (To Chewy, after Thor lost his temper).
• Belly rubs!
• Don't swallow that plastic/fuzz/paper/shoe!
• Stop licking your feet!
• Put your head out the window and shush (to Thor, in the car)
• Thor, why do you rip the ears off of every chew toy?
• Get off my foot, you fat cow.
• Oh dear, what have you done? (This is anytime I come home to two cowering, remorseful, hiding dogs instead of wagging-happy dogs).
• Don't eat barf!
• Did you DROOL in my shoe? You bastard!
• DROP THAT SOCK!
• Aww, snuggle-puppy

UPDATED: My husband commented on Facebook (NOT my blog: bad form dude, bad form) with the following:

You forgot "stop licking your brothers junk" and "no you can't have the bottle yet, it's not empty".

Touche Sir, I indeed forgot those two. Along the same lines: "put that away, nobody wants to see your junk."

Chewy: Exhausted Hoarder

Chewy waited until Thor wasn't looking, stole the much-abused tennis ball, and climbed to his normal spot on the couch.

Where he promptly fell asleep, apparently exhausted from his efforts to again thieve toys from his brother.

Later he snored loud enough to wake himself up. Startled, he dropped the ball, barked incessantly, and searched the whole house for the horrible snoring monster that scared him.

Dogs: better than cable.