The End of the Red Devil and Other Random Events

A 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). 

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. 

Yes, I'm a wild and exciting person.

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. 

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. 

On the other hand, I AM MOTIVATED this morning.

2) The nurses give you a big dose of Benadryl as one of the pre-infusion meds. Benadryl makes me sleepy. This is important: 

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. 

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. 

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). 

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. 

It's awfully hot in here...can I do treatment in my underwear in the parking lot today? 

A Booby Prize

Wednesday 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.

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 "Frankenknocker". FK for short, which works for me on multiple levels. 

It DOES sounds more lyrical. I have no argument.

Wednesday afternoon I met my team at MN Oncology. It's ridiculous that FK has a team.

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.

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).

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.

Aren't I just a barrel of fun these days? Yeah, I think so too.

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.

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.

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.

The big question here is will I rock the Telly Savalas look, or will I wig out...I don't know that yet either.

I suppose I could cancel the appointment I have for a haircut in December, though.

Tiny Indignities: Brought to You by Frankenboob

First, thank you. To everyone who has been so damn supportive and kind (and patient!) please know I appreciate it all.

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.

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.

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.

I'm going through the intake paperwork for the Oncologist and am struck by the frank end-of-life preference questions.  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. 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):

1. 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, what better way to start my day?
2. 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. Doogie Howser 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! 
3. 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). 
4. 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.
5. 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. 
1. 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.)
6. 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. 
7. 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. 
8. Side effects of future treatments will be...well, they should be less awful than chemo, but less fun than getting a cavity drilled. 

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. 

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. 

Also, since I included boobs AND drugs in this post, HI NSA! 

An Unexpected Unpleasant Side Quest

So, 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.

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.

Get your mammograms, peeps. This is not how I expected to spend my favorite season.

Facts as of today:

• 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. 
• 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. 
• 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. 
• 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. 

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.

Today I have a plan.
And I'm convinced by my medical team it'll be ok.
And I need a good name for the tumah (it IS a tumah, and if you haven't seen Kindergarten Cop you're probably too young to read any of this post) so I can say I'm kicking its specific cancerous ass.

Fucked Up Things I've Discovered (so far):

1. 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. 
2. Everything after the radiologist says "we see something, you need a biopsy asap, how's next Tuesday" sounds like the Peanuts adults mumbling. 
3. Breast biopsy needles look like an ear piercing gun's meaner older sibling, and sound equally as obnoxious. 
4. Breast biopsy procedures look suspiciously like a Xenomorph's second mouth taking super fast tiny Alien bites on the ultrasound machine. WELL OF COURSE I WATCHED IT...do you know me?
5. Breast MRIs are significantly more undignified 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.  
6. 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). 
7. I am capable of meditating while my ribs bruise.
8. Spa music and noise cancelling headphones don't get rid of the MRI noise. 
9. No amount of music can distract from feeling a troupe of fairies frantically dancing on my back during the final scan. Fucking weird. 
10. MRI dye doesn't give you superpowers. I'm sorely disappointed. 

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.

Today is good. 

Of Course My Secret Admirers Are Weird

A 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: and that's when Russell Crowe showed up in my grandparents' mailbox.

It's now been nearly 20 years and I still don't know who did it. 

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). 

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. 

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?

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. 

No joy. 

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." 

My secret admirer wants to prevent my ears from icing over and breaking off, so I've got that going for me. 

It's a Mew Year

Not 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.

Also puppies: unaffected by catnip yet rudely ensure the cat can't get high out of sheer spite. 

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.

In practice, this has turned into an epic war that brings out a growly BattleCat.

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.

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.

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!

Well, nearly no one.

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.

It is.

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.

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."

I ignored him.

He moved closer and meowed again, with a question mark at the end. "Please will you play?"

He waited another two seconds and MEOWED. "Let me rephrase. YOU WILL FUCKING BE PREY NOW."

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.

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.

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.

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.

I've made peace with the likelihood that fAngus will eat me if I die home alone.

More 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? 

This month, it was a witchybox full of various pagan bits and pieces (um, let's be clear I mean bits and pieces of things that are often associated with witches and pagans, not bits and pieces OF a pagan...that'd be gross, and way messier than this box turned out to be). 

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. 

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. 

I'm fairly certain that box came with some sort of anti-dog-destruction spell, and it seems to be persistent. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

He also ate both of my last two pairs of sunglasses recently: he gets zero sympathy. 

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). 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

Things Ragnar Ate Episode 4: The Reeking

I hate cicada season. HATES it, Precious.

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. 

Ragnar cares deeply about the innards of stuffed animals. And shoes. And walls. 

So, lately in the list of Things Ragnar Ate: 

• Another pair of flip flops - 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? 
• A full bag of strawberry Twizzlers - I expect to clean up something resembling the results of Strawberry Shortcake kegger later.
• 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 - 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. 
• Just another hole in the wall - 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. 
• Weiner Dog and Olaf guts - 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. 
• Every throw pillow in this house - because he's a fucker who obviously hates my naps. 
• A goose egg. Where the fuck did he find a GOOSE EGG, and WHY WAS IT ROTTEN? - I mean crawling with maggots, green and black inside, death-stench rotten. What the fuck have people been doing in this townhome complex, really? 

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.

Make 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.

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 her 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.

She started the conversation by complaining that our property taxes will go up again because my city had "yet another stupid school levy pass".

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."

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."

OH MY FUCKING GODDESS, YOU SELFISH IDIOT.

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."

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.

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.

• If you drive on roads, YOU BENEFIT FROM SOCIETY. 
• If you get city water/sewer service to your house, YOU BENEFIT FROM SOCIETY. 
• If your public education is decent, your neighborhood is more desirable. 
• 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. 
• If your home is on fire and you call the fire department, YOU BENEFIT FROM SOCIETY. 
• If you have need to call 911 for cops or paramedics, YOU BENEFIT FROM SOCIETY. 

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.

• Just for the record - SOCIALISM is defined as follows: a theory or system of social organization that advocates the vesting of the ownership and control of the means of production and distribution, of capital, land, etc., in the community as a whole.

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. 

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. 

An uneducated populace allows propaganda and fear to rule their lives, and we get shit like the Inquisition. WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT ANOTHER INQUISITION?

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 does have some say in success, but the simple availability of basic education is one of the services differentiating a successful functioning society and serfdom. 

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. 

It can be as simple as voting: exercising the right and responsibility to participate in decisions that affect your environment. 

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). 

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. 

End rant. 

Back with Spam - Oh Gloria, Your Marketing Fails.

I mean...I guess it's convenient that I can have groceries or pizza delivered right along with someone named Leah?

Honestly, Leah, even if I had the appropriate gear you're asking for, I have to say I'm not really the "any will do" type.

Dear Yahoo mail and the Gloria Coopers of the world (I assume she's the madam in this case?)...still not a dude.

What the actual fuck.

PS: Dear Instacart,

Stop enabling my laziness, you terrible siren song of convenience. Next time I have an I'm-crabby-bring-me-chocolate-or-die craving and can't bother to put on pants*, I'm looking you up, with a note saying just knock and leave groceries outside the door, because I still can't be bothered to pants. Thanks!


*You probably think this mood is too specific to occur often. You are wrong. 

Living Up to Viking Stereotypes

This is obviously my fault. I'm the idiot who chose a Viking legend as the appropriate name for my puppy. Yes, I know there has been WAY more important world events lately, but I'm not a news source, and I'm tired of death, so this post is focused on destruction instead.

Things Ragnar Ate: 

• The heel of the only pair of tall boots I own that actually fit my calves. Because he's an asshole who has no respect for my wardrobe. 
• Two packages of incense. Luckily for him, it wasn't the expensive incense: it was the single-use sticks. I expect his poop to smell like recycled lavender for a while. Does that mean cleaning up after him will make me sleepy? 
• A ruler. Yeah. A wooden ruler with a fucking metal edge, which I managed to get away from him before he cut anything but after he lost another tooth. 
• The carpet. There are so many carpet munching comments to be had here...at least if he's going to do the viking stereotype he's choosing the right activity? 
• The wall. The WALL. HE ATE THE MOTHERFUCKING WALL. He picked at the edge of a patch until he could get his little needley white puppy teeth on it, and pulled it off the goddamned wall. I actually have nothing funny to say about this, because it's just infuriating. Related: does anyone know a good sheetrock person? 
• Angus. In neither an inappropriate cat / carpet euphemistic way (gross) OR a deathly way. Let me explain. 

So here's how the daily fights in my house break down. Ragnar gets all worked up with UBER PUPPY ENERGY and starts chasing Angus. 

Angus, being stubbornly convinced he's the biggest badass in the house, swats at puppy snout instead of running. Inevitably, this results in Ragnar grabbing the big black puffball cat's lemur-ish tail and attempting to drag him down the hallway. Have you ever heard a cat so pissed off he suddenly morphs into the Alien facehugger? Because that's what he doe: he wraps that lemur tail around the back of the puppy's head and latches onto his face with all four sets of claws. Instead of the creepy throat-egg thing, he just grabs Ragnar's ear in his formidable no-longer-kitten jaws and bites HARD. 

Scream-whining ensues, and Angus rides a bucking puppy through the entire household, doubling down in his grip with both claws and teeth until Ragnar cries uncle. They separate for a few minutes, then Ragnar sniffs kitten belly, Angus licks Ragnar's forehead, and they snuggle until the WILD PUPPY ENERGY starts the whole rigmarole over. 

Ragnar Lodbrok would undoubtedly be proud of my puppy's penchant for destruction. 

And Then I Dropped a Chemical Weapon On Myself

Things Ragnar Ate:

• The corner of a foam Yoga brick
• Well, that's an unsubtle reminder. 
• A stolen treat still in the wrapper 
• Dog treats are gross. This one was rabbit sausage (presumably that would be a sausage-shaped treat comprised of rabbit bits, not rabbit penis, since it didn't say "pizzle" on the packaging. 
• The rubber coating from a 2 lb fitness weight
• He's right. I'm not using it anyway. 
• One ballet flat
• But WHY does he insist on keeping one of my feet bare? Just one? ASSHOLE.
• 7 toilet paper rolls
• at least he waits for them to be empty, unlike Angus who insists on unrolling all the toilet paper and murdering any new roll he finds
• A small chunk of wood from the bottom of a nightstand

And this is where chemical weapons entered my bedroom. 

If you've had a puppy, you are already aware that they chew on FUCK ALL EVERYTHING. Those tiny shark teeth are always hungry, and much like a shark, puppy teeth are nearly always in motion until they hit a few months old and start losing those shark teeth. At that point, the sharks are ALWAYS chewing...even in their sleep.

My teeth hurt. CHEW THE THINGS.
Photo courtesy of National Geographic

 As such, most pet supply stores offer various takes on icky things to spray/rub on items they don't want shredded.

So, when I moved back to MN I bought myself real bedroom furniture so I can pretend I'm an adult. This statement is not a non-sequitur.

At about 2:30am the other night, I woke to a giant furry termite making gross gnawing sounds that were unmistakably on wood. I'm not a fan of middle of the night sleep interruptions. By "not a fan" I do, indeed, mean I'm homicidally cranky.

So, pissed off and growling, I got up. I took that fucking bottle of bitter-chemical-chew-stop and sprayed it on ALL the dresser/nightstands/bookshelves in my room. And the lone sad remaining already once-repaired iPhone cord.

In my defense, at 2:30am when I'm naked and cold and ready to commit various bloody forms of murder on anything alive in my house who bothered waking me up...I MAY have overlooked the fact that spraying that shit all over means there is aerosoled chemical weapon floating around in the very air I breathe.

And that's how I ended up with bitter-no-chew-spray in my sinuses, eyes, and lungs for the next six hours.

FYI: Starbucks is NOT TASTY when mixed with bitter-no-chew-spray.

The 17 Year Old Unsolved Mystery of Russell Crowe.

The turn of the millennium had a couple big milestones for me. I graduated college in 1999, and my first real adventures happened in 2000. I moved away from home over New Year's weekend. (Yeah, I  know a lot of peeps move when they GO to college, but I LIKED my hometown and never wanted to move away. Alas, bills require jobs, and jobs for an English and History major were scarce there, so off to the city I went.) I spent that first year living at my grandparent's house - which is relevant to this post.

For a "yay you made it through college and are officially adulting" I was lucky enough to receive help to buy a car or go on a trip. 

Fuck cars. I went to Ireland. I was all of twenty-one. 

No FB, no texting, no affordable international cell phone plans. I chuckle at the helicopter parents now who have to hear from their traveling college students regularly: I left Minnesota on a Thursday night, flew from here to Chicago and from Chicago to London. This was my first trip out of the country, and I went alone. I didn't meet my tour group (Contiki Tours, who are still in business and run fabulous tours for 18-35 year-olds) until I got settled in my hotel in London on Friday night. 

I didn't have an opportunity to email or call my parental units 'til Wednesday that week. On that tour, I may or may not have had a fling with the Scottish driver (who was twenty years older than me but OH MY GOD that accent) and made a couple of Australian friends. After all, I was one of three Americans on the tour: everyone else was Aussie or NZ. 

I'm still friends with one of the guys I met from Melbourne, Australia. He visited twice in those first few years, and we had pretty regular contact for a while. To this day, we trade pics of our families and news once or twice a year. 

All of this is relevant, because I STILL suspect he's the culprit. 

2000 was also the year Gladiator came out. I saw it right after I came back from Ireland in May, and fell utterly in love with Russell Crowe. I have no regrets regarding my unrequited devotion. 

So, recall that I was living with my grandparents, and fast forward a couple of months, when a random envelope showed up in the mailbox. 

Note Return Address Area has NONE. 

 So, clearly this wasn't SENT to me. It was left in the mailbox by some weirdo. I don't recognize the handwriting.

WHERE THE FUCK IS THE POSTAGE?  

Return address. In case I didn't tape it back together well enough, that say NSW (New South Wales) Australia.
NSW Australia is where RC is from.
This is a lot of effort to screw with my brainpan. 

Indeed. 

THERE IS NO APPROPRIATE CAPTION FOR THIS...
Except YUM.

So, 17 years later I'm cleaning out papers and find this envelope, still never claimed by Cameron or my parents or anyone else. 

But SOMEBODY dropped Russell Crowe in my mailbox, and it wasn't a benevolent mail fairy carrying around an unpostaged Maximus. 

If anyone wants to claim this one, feel free...I still want to know. 

Cameron, I still think it was you colluding with some family member. And I'll miss you terribly when I'm on an other tour in Ireland next May. 

If anyone wants to send Maximus to my house now...hey, I still hold that particular crush right along with Gerard Butler and The Rock. 

A Nefarious Gang Stalks My House

This fine cool fall-ish morning I took my usual sojourn to Starbucks for fancy coffee (because I work from home full time now, and sometimes that's my only outing of the day. Hey, I shower every day and wear not-pajamas for this gig, and I'm still saving money by not
commuting...oh stop judging me).

Anyway, when I got home in my quiet little townhouse neighborhood it looked like usual ghost-town. All the other adults have gone to work or (those few at home) were holed up in their houses doing whatever stay-at-homers do all day. Teenagers aren't up roaming the neighborhood yet because sleeping in before school starts is REALLY important. Littler kids are either off at daycare or inside with the stay-at-homers doing whatever they do early in the morning.

And then I saw THEM.

Did you know my house is relatively close to a golf course AND a large not-groomed park (meaning, no paved paths, mostly just lovely dark woods)? Did you know such features encourage wildlife, for which I'm generally grateful, but occasionally less so? This area also houses a roving gang of ne'r-do-wells who regularly cause traffic jams and give you birdy evil-eye while you wait impatiently for them to saunter across the road at their own ridiculously slow pace.

Fucking turkeys.

Yeah. Got out of my car this morning and the Feathered Jets were wandering about in the grass the lawnservice dudes didn't bother to mow well this week, so presumably they're full of tasty bug things.

Two members of the Feathered Jets.
No, I wasn't about to get CLOSER. 

I hate turkeys, except on my plate. They're mean. I wrote about it once before...seems worth reposting here today. In the meantime, I made it into the house before the stupid dinosaur descendants saw me.

Vengeful Turkey

Progress Smells Like Eucalyptus, and I'm Confused

I'm starting to feel more human, less simulacrum.

Maybe it's the sun (60 degrees and sunny in Minnesota is decidedly springy). The yard is clean of all winter dog mess. Chewy is happily lying in the not-yet-grass barking (mostly silently now, as he's gotten old and his voice is giving out) at neighborhood kids. It's nice, even as he slows down, to see him get a hint of his younger self. PROTECT THE YARD FROM ALL THE DEMONS is still happening, it's just muted and often from a prone position.

Hopefully, demons move slow enough for a 1/4 crippled Great Pyrenees to chase them down in a wobbly lumber.

Maybe it's because I joined a fancy (well, fancy for Minnesota) gym recently and the workouts are helping with energy. And screaming arm muscles. And sleeping, but not ON the treadmill because that's frowned upon in upscale establishments with personal trainers and triathletes.

The steam room is definitely helping...it's deliciously eucalyptus-y and burns my sinuses for the first few minutes every time I sit in there. Fuck the treadmill - I could sit in there all day. But I won't, because I'm pretty sure I'd pass out and schlepping a woman my size out of the steam room to the ambulance in front of all the other gym members is NOT my idea of a fun time.

Maybe it's because I only have a few episodes of Downton Abbey to watch, and I'm finally squinting at OUTSIDE to prolong it. Yes, I'm aware I'm like seven years out of date here. You shouldn't be surprised if you've read this blog longer than a day.

Also, seriously, I've been mostly out of my Neflix and Amazon Prime hibernation for the past two months, and I'm so terribly confused. Bingeing on Downton does NOT prepare one for news headlines about spiders being fully capable of eating all humans within a year if they felt peckish, or the bullfighter gored by a foot of bull horn up the rectum (I'm still clenching my cheeks after reading that one), or that a giant reticulated python ate a man whole in Indonesia yesterday.

Also, I saw the trailer for the new version of Stephen King's IT today. Let the nightmares begin.

What the fuck is going on?

Random Crap and Totally Inappropriate Lyrics

Does anyone else feel like 2017 is an extended (terrible) episode of the Twilight Zone? And that's all I'm going to say about the Oompa Loompa in charge, because I think it's covered better by all the media (social and mainstream) out there.

So, I haven't been here much since Thor died. I haven't honestly written much at all since then: worried about Chewy, hanging out with the family while they were in town for holidays, helping my ex get his stuff (well, the stuff left in my house/garage) ready to move down to Texas. My poor drawer-o-journals has been untouched for a couple of weeks now, which is pretty horrid since I MAY have bought yet another recently. *Sigh* yes, I have a problem. 

Tomorrow, I'm going to my first writing conference. It's stupid, but I'm beyond nervous: I'm bringing a page for critique (anonymously, thank all the deities out there) by agents, and signed up to do a pitch session. I can't decide if I'm pushing my boundaries in effort to become a professional writer someday, or if I'm just paying dearly for a moment of insanity months ago when I signed up to do this thing. Let's just all cross appendages that I stay within the non-arrestable forms of inappropriate behavior, shall we? 

Google says "arrestable" isn't a word. I disagree. 

I'm too nervous to come up with decent funny blog items tonight, but I AM back. And so instead I'll subject you to the dirtiest song I've actually ever heard (ok, that's not entirely true). No, I didn't know this song existed until the other day. Feel free to make fun of the video (which, if you listen to the lyrics has NOTHING to do with the song)...I did. Then I heard "cunning linguist" and really paid attention and HOLY CRAP they played this on the radio. Awesome and awfulsome. 

Groupon Offered "Junk Removal" Today. I'm Disturbed.

Then again, maybe I'm the only one who thinks of this in 12 year old terms. 

Of course, I also received a bunch of offers for viagra/cialis and an inappropriate offer for surprise anal. (Um, can I just say that, at least theoretically, pretty much no sexual act should be a surprise?) 

If I don't think about it too hard, the whole thing is funny as hell. Yahoo still thinks I'm a dude with ED and questionable friends. 

If I start thinking about it more, I start wondering if we'll ever get to a point as a culture that sexually inexperienced young chicks are the be-all-end-all for ishy older men. 

Just once I'd love to see a spam ad for a confident, experienced, hot woman (not a GIRL) looking for fun. Not that I'd answer...but you know, at least it'd be a little variety. 

Or I could just delete my spam inbox without bothering to look. I know, I know. It's probably time for some Bloggess coloring books. 

Fortune Favors the Weird

So, I collect "interesting" fortune cookie fortunes. I don't put "in bed" on the end when I read them out loud...mostly because I've gotten some impressively awful ones over the years.





If you're feeling down, try throwing yourself into your work. Or anywhere other than work, because what the fuck will make you feel LESS happy when you're depressed than drowning in work?? Why not throw yourself into a hot bath with wine and chocolate, or in bed with your significant other, or on the floor with a cuddly dog?



Avert misunderstanding by calm, poise, and balance. And good aim when you lose calm, poise, and balance and start throwing things. Not that I throw things. I'm more likely to go to the range or the heavy-bag for an hour...in which case I reiterate: good aim.

Deep faith eliminates fear. So does a deep bottle of wine. Just sayin.





If you love something, set it free...if it returns, keep it and love it forever. Unless it's cake. If it's cake, eat it all and enjoy every delicious bite, because who knows when you'll get cake again?





BLANK I've gotten no less than three blank fortunes. It's the universe warning me about the zombie apocalypse, I'm sure. See? WHO KNOWS when you'll get cake again?




Cookies go stale. Fortunes are forever. WELL. That's not ominous at all.




All things have an end. As if the blank fortunes needed to be clearer in their DOOM DOOM DOOM messaging...




Fortune Not Found: Abort, Retry, Ignore? FUCKING REALLY?? REALLY??

Saving People From The Wrong Dangers: Epic Fail, CDC.

Apparently, the CDC had to issue YET ANOTHER warning to stupid humans who have a penchant for making out with chickens. Oh no, this isn't the first time people have been warned about the dangers of kissing chickens, and that makes me a little sad for the human race. Except, maybe they'll eventually take themselves out of the gene pool.


Because said idiots are catching salmonella by kissing and cuddling chickens and, per the warning, allowing chickens to wander about the house, including in the bedroom.


So...salmonella can now be considered an STD as well as a food-safety illness?


I'd really like to ask what the hell is wrong with people, but I suspect it's the same sort of freaks who try to make out with geese at the Renaissance Festival petting zoo, get bitten, and ask security if they'll get rabies.


Because goose rabies is a thing? Um, no. Also, people who are dumb enough to ask about goose rabies CLEARLY don't know how awful rabies actually is, if they're daring to make out with any creature they think MIGHT carry it. What the actual fuck.


I think we have bigger things to worry about than Darwin candidates who do inappropriate things with fowl.


Like clowns.


Random terrifying clowns who stand on the roadside or TRY TO LURE CHILDREN INTO THE WOODS.


This is actually happening in the Carolinas right now. Even Stephen King is scared of the idea. Now, I'm all for a good terrifying Halloween prank, but I'm a little baffled that the local police are blowing it off when there's the whole luring people-spawn into dark foresty places aspect. Obviously, some supernatural or alien terror is masquerading as clowns...and is really a giant spider in the sewer...wait, um...never mind.


Seriously, instead of going after the creepy creepers dressed as horrifying clown things, the local police appear to be more concerned about the ONE smart guy who went after the clown lurking in his yard with a machete.


I say GO YOU, machete dude. I'd be pretty pissed off to find one of those infernally cheerful creatures of hell in my yard, too...


Where's my machete?

Be Careful What You Ask For?

Every once in a while, people who aren't COMPLETELY horrified at the stuff I think up wonder where the hell I get some of my story ideas. I had a nifty example today...


While sitting in the girl-doctor's office waiting room, no less (before being mildly annoyed that my appointment was being cancelled via phone while I was in line to check in at the reception desk...sigh), the following thoughts strung themselves together in my brainpan and swirled around awhile.


1) Salt was a much sought-after item in ancient times, and could be quite expensive (it was a serious moneymaker for empires to own salt mines).


2) MANY ancient religious practices and beliefs included acceptance and regular interaction with the supernatural. Ghosts, demons, djinn, fairies, sirens/mermaids, etc.


2) Salt, in ritual, is used for protection against malevolent supernatural/spiritual activity. This is not limited to neo-pagan practices: superstitious people still fling salt over their left shoulder if it's been spilled, to ward off bad luck.


SO...

• If salt was relatively scarce outside of coastal areas or next to salt deposits AND used specifically for warding off demonic possessions, evil ghostly attacks, etc., did stuff like the Exorcist happen more often because every household didn't have salt available for protections?
• Does that mean wealthy societies now who have salt on the table every day are protected from said attacks?
• If they ARE...would an apocalypse (zombie or otherwise) result in an increase in possessions/activity as well?

And so, my brain decided that post-apocalyptic survivors would have to deal with demons and the like even within their protections unless they happen to have someone in their new society who can banish and protect them all. And what would THAT look like?


Yeah. That's the shit my head comes up with when I'm bored. Be glad you don't live in here people: it's a weird crowded space...


I write to make room.