Are We Doing Things Again?

Just a short post today, Drunkards. Because something very unusual has happened. 

I'm overbooked today.

Unfortunately, none of it involves madly typing at my computer, which would mean I was spending my Saturday writing. But I'm never not going to use the "cat typing" gif if I can possibly shoehorn it into a post.

I used to be a relatively busy person. Now and again I'll see a Facebook memory where I talk about what a busy day I was planning to have/was having/had. Facebook has become a cesspool of trolls and grumpy acquaintances offering indistinguishable bad takes on silly topics, and I mostly stay away from it these days. But at its best it was a useful chronicle of the 2010s, which were a decade of me being a mom, a wife, a homeowner, a person with some vague notions of having a "career" rather than a job, even a social life. 

Lol, nope, never that. But in retrospect, I had a typical suburban schedule of school activities and DIY projects at home and keeping up with friends and family. I was - not all the time but much of the time - busy.

Gradually my life has slowed down and my world has gotten smaller. It started when I got divorced, which lopped off an entire half a family's worth of social responsibilities (no regerts). It continued with Precocious Daughter graduating from high school and the end of being Marching Band Mom, Karate Mom, etc. Then, of course, the pandemic hit, and even for a homebody like me, normal life became truncated and isolated for a while. 

I'm not going to say that life has picked up where it left off yet, at least not for me. Things like going to the movies, attending concerts, etc. are probably still weeks if not months in my future. I'm not 100% sure they're safe, and I'm 200% sure it's going to take my hermit brain more time to be comfortable around that many people again. Your mileage may vary. I wasn't a fan of crowds or a social butterfly before COVID hit, so while I missed those things when they were taken away, I also adapted very easily to staying home and doing nothing.

Happy little potato, that's me.

Still, there are signs that the old modes of living are returning, for better or for worse. And so today I actually have a - oh, what's that word? - a schedule. Ugh. And it starts with me having to be somewhere at 10:00 a.m. on a freaking Saturday. For a work-related event, of all things. That involves being outside in the Texas heat and humidity and pretending to enjoy myself. I'm sweating on multiple levels just thinking about it.

Then I'm meeting a friend to help him pick out curtains. In an honest-to-glob store. Stores selling things other than toilet paper and lunchmeat still exist in 2021, I'm told. If I'm lucky, I'll have time to go home and shower in between these events. Or not. This excursion may turn out to be a future post if it goes entertainingly enough. Stay tuned. 

Afterwards I have to get home in time to clean up myself and my apartment for Drummer Boy, who is coming over around 5:00. Probably I should stop at the grocery store, too. Drummer Boy likes fresh half-and-half for his coffee on Sunday morning. 

Now, that last part is by far the best part of today's schedule and is what will sustain me through the rest of it. But it still involves managing my time on a scale I haven't had to deal with in more than a year. My normal Saturday schedule in the pandemic era involves clicking "yes" when the TV asks me if I'm still watching, which is so judgmental, if you ask me. You'd think the TV would be happy to be of service. Everybody's a critic.

Anyway. That's my Saturday, which may not sound terribly hectic but is a lot for someone like me who thought we had all agreed to stay home and never interact again. Now I have to shave my legs and everything. 

Do I even have that many tea lights? Do I have to do my nails first? Can my leg actually assume that position? Look, this is getting complicated, so I'll leave you here. 

Whatever your Saturday looks like, Drunkards, make it a good one. 

I Would Walk 804.672 Kilometers, and I Would Walk 804.672 Kilometers More

Today's post is brought to you by two of my best friends-I've-never-met, Bill the Butcher and Allie Cat, who have no clue that they both gave me the same idea. Great minds, etc.

Sidebar: 

The phrase "Great minds think alike" - shortened above with the "etc." to show that I'm one of the Internet cool kids - is itself abbreviated from its original form, which is "Great minds think alike, though fools seldom differ." That happens to be a sentiment I love - "Agree with me, but not too much, because that's highly suspect and makes you seem weird and creepy." The longer saying is great relationship advice, the more common shorter version is how pundits on all points of the political spectrum manage to convince themselves they're relevant even though they're actually emotionally stunted, attention-starved bores.

See also: "Money is the root of all evil," which it's totally not and I'll prove it to you as soon as I have some.

Anyway, back to our post. Last week in this space I wrote about the mystery of the four-ounce Camembert cheese. To which Bill the Butcher - who claims to live in some place called "India," if you can believe that - commented "What is an 'ounce' in human-comprehensible units?"

How rude. Everyone knows that an ounce is the amount of weed that a cop will "confiscate as evidence" instead of just pouring it out on the ground in front of you. Or so I've heard. 

But it was 14.17 grams of oregano for my mom,
I swear, officer.

So then I saw a post from Allie Cat on Facebook, talking about how we Americans look stupid because we stubbornly refuse to adopt the metric system. STUPID? I take umbrage with that. When it comes to our decades-long resistance to adopting the measuring standards of the entire rest of the world, Americans may look willfully ignorant, uneducated, unenlightened, hidebound, parochial, narrow-minded, and obtuse. But we are not stupid.

Some of us are stupid for myriad other reasons.

And by the way, we don't completely eschew the use of the metric system. For instance, you can buy weed in either grams or ounces. In fact, the average stoner is fairly expert in converting metric to imperial measurements. Weed is magical that way. And America has been buying its cocaine and heroin in grams and kilos since before disco was a thing, which is a long time, children. 

The point is, if it's something important, of course Americans use the metric system.

But Allie and Bill did get me thinking of my own history with learning the metric system.  I was brought up in the Shiny Seventies, which means I was subjected to the U.S. government's sustained and hilarious attempts to indoctrinate American children into adopting the vernacular of meters, grams, and Celsiuseses. We were going to be the vanguard, the ones who would help the citizens before us and the citizens yet to come to shed the archaic shackles of acres and bushels and hogsheads and barleycorns. We would eat 30-centimeter hot dogs and wash them down with 1.18-liter malt liquors. For the good of America.

Looking back, it was one of the earliest examples of Baby Boomers expecting Gen X to do the heavy lifting for the rest of society. And in true Gen X fashion, our collective response was "lol wut."

If our parents had just gotten us one of these bikes
for Christmas, the world might be very different today.

But the government tried, it really did. It tried to be hip and with-it and speak to us kids in the language we best understood. Which was cartoons. Hey, they weren't wrong. The government wisely chose to emulate the framework of "Schoolhouse Rock," aka the only reason I can recite the Preamble to the Constitution and multiply by eight in my head.

We got off on our new math tricks,
and we liked it.

So throughout the 70s, my peers and I were shown various short animated films about the metric system. But instead of being broadcast on network television, like "Schoolhouse Rock," we watched these during school hours, on the giant TV rolled out on the magic cart. And instead of enjoying them over a bowl of Froot Loops on a Saturday morning, we were a captive audience that didn't get to go to recess until we had absorbed government-approved ditties about how the U.S. was going to lead the world by doing what the rest of it was already doing. So the metric system had a distinct disadvantage over, say, "Conjunction Junction," passive-learning-wise.

I found the two metric system videos I remember best on YouTube for your enjoyment. Now, I'm not gonna lie: On playing these clips, I found I was able to sing along with them, word for word, after 40+ years. To this day, the only reason I have any clue how long a meter is or what 25 degrees Celsius feels like is because these little jingles play in my head when I need to retrieve that knowledge. So on that level, they were quite successful.

On the other hand, after 40+ years the sum total of my knowledge of the metric system is that a gram is "the weight of a single raisin." And in the real world, the ability to quickly convert ounces to raisins is not as useful as you might imagine.

So instead of a raising a generation of metric-fluent adults, America created a generation of chronic  underachievers who can win at bar trivia as long as a significant portion of the questions involve the metric weight of dried fruit or the history of white Americans, set to music.

And that's why America still doesn't use the metric system. 

Here are the clips, in case you want to know what my inner soundtrack sounds like. You can thank Allie Cat and Bill the Butcher for the earworms.

Gratitudinal

Here in America,Thanksgiving is a week from today. You might not know that from all the freaking Christmas commercials on TV, but it's true.

Ugh.

As far as I'm concerned, Christmas can fuck off until at least December 1. So let's talk about giving thanks.

I'm thankful for:

Technology that lets me access both the internet and my favorite TV channels even though my laptop has a busted screen.

Wonderful people who have offered to buy me a new laptop (thanks, but see above).

An amazing daughter who is determined to be a self-sufficient, fiscally responsible college student.

Clients who actually pay for my freelance writing services.

A cat who keeps me warm on chilly nights and purrs loudly when I offer chin scratches.

Friends who stick with me when I don't necessarily give them reason to want to.

Twitter, for making me laugh every damn day.

What are you guys grateful for? Share with me, please.

Democracy Rocks

Yesterday Precocious Daughter and I voted in the Texas Democratic primary.

Her first time voting.

She was way excited, and frankly, so was I.

It was early voting, which was great, because although every voting machine was in use when we got to the polling place, there was no line. The lady who checked PDaughter's ID obviously noticed her birthdate and asked if it was her first time to vote. When PDaughter answered in the affirmative, all the poll workers turned toward her and applauded. That was nice.

Outside the local library, which was our early-voting location, we got to meet the candidate for state representative for whom we planned to vote. It turned out we have a mutual friend in a district judge who is up for re-election, so we had a very nice chat. We also got to meet our local precinct chairman, a very nice man who welcomed us and thanked us for voting.

My wonderful, smart, nerdy child was awestruck by the entire experience. She was so proud to have voted. And I was so proud to see how proud she was.

Just pride all over the damn place.

his morning I mentioned to a co-worker that PDaughter had voted for the first time (he also has a daughter who just turned 18). And he confessed to me - literally in a whisper - that he has never voted in his entire life.

This man is in his late 40s. He has multiple degrees and is actually working toward another one right now. And he's never once voted in a single election at any level.

I am Joey at this moment.

Let me tell you a little secret. When I was married, my ex and I voted in the major elections...you know, President, statewide elections, midterms, that sort of thing. But I rarely voted in primaries, and I never voted in local elections. Because it wasn't a priority for him, and so it wasn't a priority for me.

This is what can happen when you allow yourself to be absorbed by your spouse.

Since I've been single, I've voted in every election. I've made myself research candidates for even the most minor of elected offices. Dammit, they're not minor until you realize that no one cares about them. I've come to realize that my voice may be small, but it's freaking powerful if I make the effort to speak up.

Making the effort is the best.

Never stop making an effort, Drunkards.

So I vote. And I make sure PDaughter knows I've voted, whenever and wherever it occurs.

And that's why my remarkable child and I just voted in the Texas Democratic primary together.

For the record: Beto O'Rourke for U.S. Senator. Because he's the best.

In addition to being smart, compassionate,
and qualified, he's way easier on the eyes
than Ted Cruz.

Voting is freedom. Voting is independence. Voting is being fully American.

Honestly, not voting is a major turn-off for me. Voting is sexy af.

I've raised a voter. That makes me happy.

Please vote, you guys. It's our shot at being part of history.

Why would you want to pass on that shot?

Casa Baudelaire votes Democrat. But you vote you.

Voting rocks.

OK, 2018 *cracks knuckles* Let's Do This

Happy 2018, Drunkards.

Belated fireworks.

It's been a pretty whirlwind time for the last week or so. As glad as I was to see 2017's sorry ass depart, I'm not sure I was expecting 2018 to come in quite so full of piss and vinegar. But it did...and is.

Some of the ups and downs of the last several days:

Up: New Year's was actually amazing. I hadn't planned on seeing my darling Drummer Boy at all, because he had a NYE gig. But it fell through, so we were able to spend 28 wonderful hours together from December 31 to January 1. We'd never seen the new year in together. It was nice.

Down: A childhood friend passed away on January 1. I don't know what happened, except that it was very sudden. She was posting on Facebook on the 31st, and the next day she was gone. She was a lovely person, both when we were kids and up until the day she died. I wish her family peace.

Up: I've decided to start sewing again. If you've been around a while, you may remember that I used to love to sew. Loved it with a passion. But just about four years ago (!), I had to turn my sewing room into a solo bedroom as my now-ex and I began our long, strange journey to divorce. And as my life spiraled out of control, sewing receded to something I used to love. But now I'm clearing a little space in the corner of my apartment so that I can once again wallow in fabric and patterns and the 4,000 bobbins I somehow acquired (but thankfully never threw away, even when I drastically downsized my life to start over). Stay tuned.

Down: Another old friend announced that her husband's cancer, once in remission, has returned and metastasized. They're hoping for another eighteen months together. I always thought I was pretty indifferent toward life until I started watching people die. Now I'm absolutely bound and determined to love every moment of it, whether I have months, years, or decades in front of me.

Sideways?: Precocious Daughter got her driver's license two days ago. Tonight she's out by herself for the very first time. I'm freaking out, you guys. I'm proud, and happy, and completely terrified. She's an excellent driver, but she's outnumbered by all the idiots on the road. If there are such things as angels, I'm hoping she has one on her shoulder as she drives.

So yeah...2018. I have very high hopes. I'm glad to be here, and I'm glad you're here, too. I'm going to get writing, get sewing, get loving, and get living.

I hope you'll join me.

You Got This

Several of my friends' marriages broke up this year.

Insert charming and sensitive stock photo here.

Which made me realize...I'm a trendsetter.

I mean, when my own marriage ended a few years back, one thought kept nagging at me, daring me to keep it quiet: You are just about the only person you know who isn't in a long-term, happy, stable marriage. What's up with that?

Indeed. It's true that in my circle of friends, acquaintances, and co-workers, I know married people, and I know single people. I don't know a lot of folks who have gone through a divorce. There's my sister, there's my dear friend SuzyQ, a couple of colleagues from past places of employment, a few other friends and relatives. That's about it. Certainly not 50% of the people I know, which the prevailing statistics would have us believe is the actual divorce rate.

If this trend continues...aaayyyyyyyy.

At the time, even though I knew I was doing what was best for me and Precocious Daughter, I felt pretty alone. And pretty much like a failure.

But then something happened.

When I announced that my marriage was ending, I received an incredible outpouring of support from family, friends, even relative strangers. I was expecting, quite honestly, expressions of sadness, disappointment, even pity. And there were those, sure. But more than anything, I heard that the people who knew me and loved me really cared, and understood, and encouraged me in my new life. 

Not to get too sappy, but it was very much like the moment when the Grinch put his hand to his ear, expecting to hear "boo-hoo-hoo" but instead heard that weird "daboo-dory" song. 

Google tells me it's actually "Fa-who For-aze." Which makes
no sense whatsoever. But still happier than "boo-hoo-hoo."

Anyway, what really blew me away was that the love and encouragement came from people who were happily married, who were religious, who were single, who were dyed-in-the-wool cynics. That's when I realized that marriage is an institution, but so is prison, and in either case putting it behind you should be, more than anything else, a cause for celebration and a chance for a fresh start.

So here I am, a few years down the road, and I'm seeing and hearing that friends are moving out, setting up custody arrangements, taking back their maiden names (or not). Marriages that I assumed were well-oiled machines are shutting down.

Never assume, people. You have no idea what goes on behind the curtain. Ever.

My new favorite image ever.

So in the spirit of giving back a little of what I got when I was going through the same mess, here's my message to people who are "consciously uncoupling":

First, don't ever use the phrase "consciously uncoupling." Gwyneth Paltrow can afford to sprinkle a layer of fairy dust over reality, but normal folks like us can't. Also, don't steam your vagina - you're not a head of broccoli. But I digress.

Second, I'm sorry. Whatever the circumstances of your marriage, you didn't go into it thinking it would end like this. Before you turn your back on the past, take a moment to mourn what you had, or what you hoped to have. It's OK.

Third, you got this. I'm pretty sure you're a kick-ass human. But chances are you feel strange and scared, or you will at times. That's normal at any point in life, not just when you're getting divorced. So don't let anybody tell you that this particular circumstance will make you weaker or less capable. You got this.

Fourth, have faith. Whether you're a traditionally devout person, or a dedicated pagan, believe that you're not alone in the universe. None of us can map out exactly what will happen in our lives. Steer your ship the best you can, but remember that you don't control the wind or the waves. Save a little room in your heart for the unexpected.

Finally, breathe. I love breathing. It's a miraculous thing, and a tremendous privilege. Breathing calms us down, psychs us up, puts us to sleep, wakes us up. You've taken millions of breaths that will never be again, and - I hope - you will take millions more. Each one is unique. Just like you. So breathe.

Whether you're single, married, divorced, widowed, or standing at some waypost in between, unsure where to go next...love and best wishes to all of you.

You got this.

The Calm Instead of the Storm

It's after 6:00 p.m. on a Friday. I'm still at work.

But that's OK.

For one thing, I missed 2+ days of work this week. So I owed it to my job and stay late and catch up on the things that need to be caught up on.

For another, it's nice here. It's quiet. I'm the only here. And somehow being-at-work alone is more pleasant than being-at-home alone. Precocious Daughter has a football game tonight, and she won't be home until 11:00 or so. When she's not around, I tend to lament her absence.

On the other hand, when my co-workers aren't around I put my feet up on the desk and pretend to smoke a cigar and act like I own the joint.

I didn't find this picture until after I wrote that description.
That's pretty hilarious. My mustache is not (yet)
that luxuriant, however. Give it time.

So I've caught up on my work, and now I'm just hanging out. Listening to music, checking Twitter, all that stuff I'm not supposed to do on company time.

Googling pictures of monkeys teasing cats, etc.

Except for a run to the pet store to pick up guinea pig supplies, I've got nothing to do and nowhere to be until PDaughter calls me to pick her up.

Yeah, I realize that's pretty pathetic. But no one ever called me a party animal. Or if they did they were wrong and possibly didn't speak English as their first language.

Incidentally, you would not believe how much
one guinea pig can eat.

My point is, there's literally one thing keeping me from hanging out here all evening.

I'm hungry.

And there's nothing to eat here except pretzels and bags of airline peanuts (which I insist my traveling co-workers donate to me when they fly Southwest, because I have that kind of power in the office. Not really. Well, maybe just one small mwa-ha-haaaa.)

So pretty soon I'll shut it all down and point myself toward dinner, the pet store, and finally, home. Read a little and try to stay awake until 11:00.

It sounds like a pleasant way to end an unpleasant week.

Thanks again to everyone who reached out to me and made me feel strong when I was feeling weak. Stronger, anyway. I can't wait to acknowledge all of you in that book I keep telling myself I'm going to write.

Gotta run.

Maybe I'll lick everybody's phone handset before I leave.

Nah.

One more monkey before I go.

From Diapers to Diplomas

Precocious Daughter began her senior year of high school today.

And yes, I do feel like Hans Moleman today.

I took a picture of her, so that Facebook can continue to taunt me with the memory well into my dotage. I dutifully "liked" all the pictures her friends' parents posted and wondered how all of these beautiful children grew up while none of of parents have aged a day. I made PDaughter a sack lunch and drew a "Class of 2018" doodle on it.

And then I dropped her off at school and made everybody at work listen to me expound about the wonders/horrors of having a senior for the rest of the day.

Now I'm home. But she's not. Today happens to be her dad's birthday. He picked her up after school, and she'll be home later this evening. I won't be the first one to hear how her day went. Which kind of stinks.

I realize that, because she lives with me, PDaughter's dad almost never gets to be the first to hear how her day went. I get it. But he also doesn't do her laundry, help clean her guinea pig's cage, or pay her many expenses. Possibly I'm being petty. Screw it - my little girl is not with me, and I'm kind of feeling sorry for myself.

Which brings up an important point.

PDaughter is applying to exactly one university in Texas. It is very likely that she'll end up moving to New York or Connecticut or Washington state in a year. And that will leave me on my own.

And that's terrifying.

For one thing, I don't exactly eat right when I'm by myself. And by "right," I mean "basically at all." I love cooking for PDaughter and grocery shopping for PDaughter and splurging at our favorite restaurants with PDaughter. But food doesn't interest me much when she's not involved. Tonight in her absence I ate dinner - leftovers from a meal she made for herself a couple of days ago. Without those in the fridge, I probably would have eaten a handful of peanuts and called it good.

As always, Target gets me.

Also, her various school/band/social events are about the only things that get me out of the house besides my job. I'm not a social creature. I've made so many good friends who are the parents of her classmates, but without that connection, I'd probably be a a freakish shut-in.

The Simpsons - an image for every situation.

I suck at being an adult, frankly. When I had parents, when I had a spouse, when I was raising a kid, I was golden. But I've never lived alone. I don't know how, you guys.

So what will I do?

Will I finally take the plunge into adulthood and become a fully-functioning, self-sustaining adult?

Will I immediately shack up with Drummer Boy, which might not be the best thing for either of us at this point in our lives?

Will I wither away and die like a piece of week-old romaine lettuce?

I have one short year to figure it out. I remember when a year used to feel like an eternity.

Now it's a blip on the radar of my life.

I'm not necessarily asking for advice, but if you have any, I'll listen.

Special shout-out to Bestest Friend, whose amazing daughter is beginning her first year of college. She went through all the crap I'm now going through last year. If she can survive it, I can. Best wishes to PDaughter's beautiful godcousin, and to her parents!

Love and Love

Oh Drunkards...my heart aches tonight.

Jerry Lewis has died at the age of 91.

As a child of the 70s and 80s, of course my most vivid memory of the man is as the host of the annual  Muscular Dystrophy Labor Day Telethon.

If you're "of a certain age," you're currently smiling and saying "awww..."

You guys, the MDA telethon.

So, muscular dystrophy is a thing. It's a genetic disease that affects people for no good reason. You can read about it here.

And Mr. Jerry Lewis hosted an annual telethon to raise money for research and treatment of muscular dystrophy. And when I was a kid, literally Labor Day was about watching the telethon.

Hosting from Las Vegas, Jerry would bring on his famous friends, like Frankie and Dino, and then would cut away so local stations could make pleas for donations.

In Milwaukee, where I grew up, that meant Howard and Rosemary Gernette.

Who totally deserve their own post. If you grew up in Milwaukee,
they are Fred and Ginger, Han and Leia, Kim and Kanye, you guys.

To me, it meant something more.

My mom had a friend named Susie. And Susie had a son named Matt.

Matt had muscular dystrophy.

And he was my age.

Oh, you guys.

Most important...Matt is the kiddo seated bottom-left in this photo. This was first grade.

Later he relied on various apparati to get around.

But Matty was the face of MD in Milwaukee when I was a kid. And if my memory is not impaired, he also appeared on the MDA telethon, at least locally.

Matthew Klockow passed away, much too soon, in 2003.

And now Jerry Lewis is gone.

On Labor Day, I'll make a donation to honor them both.

I hope you will, too.

Thank you. <3

Today Has Been So Awesome, You Guys

A good friend messaged me this today:

"Call me when/if you stop drinking."

And I'm like, OK. Will do.

But...what does that mean?

If I wake up tomorrow and decide I'm not going to drink any more, does that count? Will you really say, "OK, we can be friends again because you've stated this decision"? Or will you  say "Yeah, fuck that, your words mean nothing"?

I totally understand.

So, what if I go a week without drinking? Does that prove to you that I've "stopped"?

If not, what about a month?

What about six months?

What if I call you one year from now and say, "It's been a year since I've had a drink."  Will that be good enough for you?

Does it need to be one year? Or two? Or five?

Do I need to call you on my death bed and say, "I definitely have stopped drinking, because I'm about to die and so you don't have to worry that I'll have another drink"?

The point is, you gave me an impossible ultimatum.

I could answer it tomorrow or when I'm 90.

Which means I interpret it as "I don't ever want to hear from you again."

So OK. You never will.

Thanks, friend.

By the way, I stopped drinking as soon as I got your message. Because you mean that much to me.

Bye.

I'm Mom Squared. Kind of Officially Now. Deal with It.

Not going to talk about Russian collusion or giant sinkholes in Florida or Wimbledon tonight.

Or Bastille, even though technically it was their day today.

Instead, I'm going to talk about boba.

No no no...not the Fett.

The beverage.

Boba tea.

This weird shit here, yeah.

Right now, Precocious Daughter is drinking boba. Because her best friend texted her and said,
"Hey, let's go get boba."

And off she went.

I did the same thing when I was 17. Only it was more likely Half-Price Books or the Granada Theater or Bennigan's, because it was the 1980s.

Not this, but somehow this.

The point is, PDaughter's best friend has her driver's license. So they go places together.

PDaughter just got her learner's permit this week. She's like her mom in that she waited until way past the minimum age to start to drive.

I don't know why. Genetics. I'm going with genetics.

See this gene? It's the "I'll drive when I'm fucking ready" gene.

The point is, I'm now teaching my darling baby girl to drive.

After an initial lesson in which she literally was afraid to start then engine, she has fallen in love with driving.

Just as I did at the age of 17.

Driving is fun.

And PDaughter is actually really good at it. Driving makes me happy, tell the truth.

And it makes her happy.

So we're happy.

LOVE.

If you're of a praying mind, maybe pray for her safety and my sanity.

If not...Good mojo is totally welcome.

Thanks, you guys.

Post II

I posted here last night.

Possibly I'd had a few drinks.

I deleted the post this morning.

I felt embarrassed by it.

But then...loyal Drunkard and hook-nosed camel-fucker Bill the Butcher said he liked it.

So I'm going to repost it here.

I've been writing poetry since I was a kid.

This is one random verse I made in high school that has stuck in my mind.

Thank you, Bill, for your kind words.

You and I may be the only people on the planet who appreciate this.

That's OK.

It keeps me going, you know?

*****

Tonight, I'm going to reproduce a poem that I honest to goodness wrote in high school. It was...1983? 1984? One of those. From memory.

Just for the hell of it.

Although, like many poems, I feel it stands the test of time.

P.S. If you're a fan of the Who, you may recognize the cadence/rhythm of "Athena" in my youthful verse.

I Saw You

I saw you
Dancing on an ice rink in a daydream.
But when it cracked
My conscience wouldn't let me scream.
I felt it more than saw it when you went down.
I let you drown.

I heard you
Sighing like a singing bird in Amsterdam.
I couldn't help remembering
How the song began.
I smashed my bedroom window and you flew away.
Should I have let you stay?

I chased you
You never turned around to see me standing there,
Encased in a crystal room
While glass flew everywhere.
You should have seen me smile when you took your last bow.
And you're gone now.

I hate you
You threw your life away and let them bleed you.
And now I'd lie
Before I'd say I need you.
You'd have seen what was in my eyes if you'd tried harder.
If I'd been smarter.

*****

And now you understand why I work in an office and am not a professional poet.

Next time I'll write a real post. <3

Wind, Whirling

I've had such a week.

You know that last Friday, I said goodbye to Darling Dog. I'm so glad that he's on the other side without pain, but, you know, I'm still here and I miss him.

Well, on Tuesday night, one of my dearest friends passed away. I was pretty much a loser in high school, particularly after moving to Plano, Texas. But I was fortunate to be part of a very small, very tight group of friends. And among these were Bestest Friend, who has remained my Bestest Friend for lo these many years, and the beautiful Noelle. We were sort of like the Three Musketeers, at least in my memory of those days.

There are legitimate benefits to remembering the '80s imperfectly.

Noelle was smart, funny, sassy, warm, happy, and honest. She was an only child (and adopted, at that), and she is actually the reason I didn't stress out when it became obvious that my Precocious Daughter would never have siblings. I figured if Noelle could grow up an only child without being lonely, resentful, or selfish, then I could raise my child to be the same way. And thanks to her, I was right.

I will miss her so much, you guys.

The same day I learned of my beautiful friend's passing, I learned about another death. Because the universe does love to pile on.

Last year, a co-worker lost his young son. Most of us were told that it was a "vehicle accident."

Yesterday I learned additional details of this child's death. And I wish to God that I hadn't.

I understand that when a person is in possession of deeply disturbing information, it is human nature to want to share that information, to (perhaps) diffuse its horror by parceling it out to others.

But Jeebus, being told the heartbreaking - and graphic - details of a child's death is not what I needed this week.

And then today, I got a promotion and a (small) raise. Which should make me happy as hell. But I'm slightly numbed by the actual important human-related things I've handled this week, so...yeah.

Tomorrow is payday. Maybe I'll be audited or something.

Here's my takeaway from this week, Drunkards.

If you love someone - anyone - tell them. Hug them, smile at them. Be the person you want them to remember on their deathbed.

Be thankful for what you have. No matter how small. You're alive, you can struggle against tomorrow's problems. That is SO GOOD. Hug someone who is important to you. Please.

Finally, here's a picture of a lily. Because I love lilies.

Yippi-Ky-Adkbar, MOFOS

Today, on my IRL Facebook page, I unfriended someone

I rarely unfriend people. I'm not in any position to toss away friendships, you know? Some people have hundreds or thousands of Facebook friends and no compunctions about shuffling the mix if time or circumstances call for it. Me, I treat every one like a precious validation of my weak, insecure soul.

Nothing a few decades of therapy couldn't straighten out,
I'm sure.

Specifically, I have immense tolerance for people whose political views differ from mine. Facebook would be totally boring if the only posts I saw were from those whose opinions and viewpoints mirrored my own. I have friends who are far more liberal than I am, as well as friends who are far more conservative . I'm OK with that, as long as we approach our differences with mutual respect (or if we ignore them altogether, which actually is preferable). 

When I unfriend people, it's generally because a) they become abusive or b) they tell lies. Those are deal-breakers, mmkay?

Let me tell you about the person I unfriended today.

She is a former co-worker (actually, I was her boss). She's a lovely woman from a lovely, large, devoutly Catholic family. She is - really - a former nun. 

What could possibly make me unfriend such a person?

Well. You've heard, I'm sure, about the attack on a mosque in Quebec. Six people were killed, eight were injured, while praying. You may have heard that two suspects were arrested. One was later described as merely a witness and released. The other was 27-year-old Quebec citizen Alexandre Bissonnette, who has been charged with 11 counts of murder and attempted murder.

Looks like the love child of Daniel Radcliffe and Tobey Maguire,
only filled with hate and armed.

These are the facts we know right now. Except that my former friend - and her family members and friends - have a different point of view. Which they expressed in no uncertain terms on Facebook.

I wish I had taken screenshots before I unfriended her, but I didn't, so I'm going to be paraphrasing here. But it's close, honestly.

• They believe there were two shooters, both Syrian refugees who had been in Canada for less than a week.

• They believe the shooters screamed "Allahu akbar" as they fired. Well, actually, they believe it was something like "ali ackbur" (again, no screenshots, unfortunately). But you get the gist from this ignorant rendering of what is believed to be a threatening phrase.

• They believe the "mainstream media" are outright lying about what happened.

To recap: these "devout" Catholics on my timeline were convinced that the murder of six innocent people by a radicalized asshole is somehow a conspiracy, a lie, and an opportunity for the Church to step in and "correct" society's ills.

And they said I was buying into the leftist media's lies (again paraphrasing actual rhetoric) because I dared make a comment questioning the truth of their "facts."

So yeah, f*ck that shit, you're unfriended.

Hypocrisy bugs me. As does extremism. As does devotion to mindless rhetoric in lieu of thinking for oneself.

Disagreements are welcome, here, on FB, anywhere.

Just don't be a Kool-Aid-swallowing, keyword-spouting bitch about it.

And we'll get along just fine. 

But I'll cut off a Canadian Catholic nun if need be, don't forget.

Vacation 2016

I'm back in Texas, you guys.

Precocious Daughter and I flew into D/FW on Wednesday night. Because it was Turkey Day Eve, I was deathly afraid we were going to encounter traffic, long lines, security nightmares, flight delays...Nope. The trip went about as smoothly and as easily as you could wish.

Kind of like the entire vacation.

I had the best time in Milwaukee. I needed this trip. It's not just that I needed a vacation (which I really, really did), but I needed specifically this vacation. I needed time with PDaughter, time with my family, time in my hometown. Because I'm not the same person I was the last time I lived there, and I felt I had to find out just who I had become since then.

I'm pleased and relieved to report that I did, and I'm happy with that person.

First things first: Yes, I got my picture with the Bronze Fonz.

Unfortunately, Henry Winkler was not in attendance,
but it was still coolamundo.

Shout-out to the parking lot attendant with the beautiful Irish brogue who collected our $2.00 so we could roam the Milwaukee Riverwalk and pose with the statue. Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to state that every single person we encountered on our trip was friendly and nice. Well, except for maybe the hostess at Tenuta's Italian restaurant on Clement Ave., who is probably the only person on Earth to return PDaughter's big, bright smile with a sneer. Maybe she was on the rag, I don't know.

Anyway, I was able to show my girl a lot of my city. I'm proud to say I still mostly knew my way around after all these years, and when I needed help, PDaughter was right there to help me navigate via cell phone. We make a good team.

We went to the Mitchell Park Domes, you guys.

Again, bucket list. You won't regret it.

The Domes are a county park/horticultural conservatory housed in three giant geodesic domes built between 1959 and 1967. They consist of a Tropical Dome, a Desert Dome, and a Show Dome that houses exhibitions throughout the year. When we went, the Christmas display was up, and it was beautiful. PDaughter loved it, as I knew she would. Everybody loves the Domes.

Her father and I lived just three blocks from Mitchell Park when we were newlyweds. We used to throw Frisbees on the big green lawn just outside the Domes, taking care to avoid the 3,568 Canada geese that seemed to occupy the space at all times. Of course, I showed PDaughter where we lived, in the first-floor flat of a house built in 1909. The neighborhood didn't look much different from the way it did from 1989-1991. I don't know if that's good or bad. I don't know if 48-year-old me could be as comfortable there as 21-year-old me was. Probably not. But I'm glad 21-year-old me lived there. It was awesome.

I also drove PDaughter past the house I grew up in, the schools I attended, the corner stores where I spent my allowance, the movie theatres I went to (many of which closed, decayed, and then were restored and reopened since I was I kid), and the streets I roamed. Bless her heart, she feigned interest in all of it. Still, I know she genuinely enjoyed the Domes, and the Milwaukee Art Museum, and my friend South Side Shelly's very eclectic home on the edge of Bay View.

The Milwaukee Art Museum is a must-see. A treasure inside and out.

I got to spend time with my brother and his wife (who was a childhood friend). That was really nice. PDaughter thought my bro was funny and cool, which made me happy. We've had very different lives, but we still fell into our old sibling banter as if we hadn't spent the last 20 years apart. Because family.

My parents seem to be doing well now that they've moved from the woods of northern Wisconsin to the relative civility of Oak Creek. They're old now...that's a bit of a thing for me. They're healthy, and independent, and certainly as mentally sharp as they've always been (thank goodness for parents who have challenged me intellectually my whole life), but still, they're in their 70s. I love them, as I've always loved them, for raising me and worrying about me and helping me out when I've needed help. I hope that when PDaughter is grown, she sees me half as favorably as I see my mom and dad.

Yet...they've been married for 52 years, and they act like it. They act like the old married couple of which I will never be a part. They bicker, they argue, they purse their lips and furrow their brows and give each other the silent treatment when the only other alternative is to shout, apparently.

It makes my heart hurt a little. Because I don't think they're happy. Yet I don't think they could live without each other. And I feel a bit guilty that I terminated my own marriage before I could get to the same state. And I'm so much happier for that.

But...we're all adults. And we make our choices.

And among my choices is that I spent five days in Milwaukee with my Precocious Daughter. And I'm so glad I did.

This Thanksgiving, I'm truly thankful for what I have. And for what I've lost.

By the way, we had a non-traditional Thanksgiving. There was chicken, pork, beef, meat loaf...but no turkey. That seems appropriate.

Still, I'm happy. And I feel so strong, you guys. I feel I owe some of that to you.

So thanks.

I hope you're all thankful, too.

Let me know, yes?

Because if nothing else, gratitude is the reason for the season.

Hello, Milwaukee Part II

Day 3 in Milwaukee:

My parents and Precocious Daughter and I went to Grant Park in South Milwaukee and walked the Seven Bridges. Even though it was 30 degrees out, the beach on Lake Michigan still made me oh so happy.

Make it a bucket list item. You won't be sorry.

Then we toured my ancestral home town of South Milwaukee, seeing the apartments I lived in from ages two to five, the homes of three of my aunts (and uncles and cousins), and the cemetery where my grandparents are buried. You guys, I don't want to be buried in the ground, but there is something somber and touching about walking amongst the gravestones of the dead and wondering about their stories and honoring your own relatives. With PDaughter at my side, I felt I was finally able to present her to her great-grandparents. Yeah, I got a little choked up. I miss my grandparents, and I know they would have loved her to death.

We spent the afternoon chilling, and then PDaughter and I visited my dear friend South Side Shelly, who proved to be exactly as smart and funny and eclectic as I remembered her from high school. She and PDaughter hit it off really well. We had dinner at an Italian place in Bay View called Tenuta's that was really quite wonderful. I love you, Shelly.

Tomorrow PDaughter and I will drive around some more, visiting landmarks and whatnot. Definitely visiting the Mitchell Park Domes, which happens to be just a few blocks from the house her father and I lived in as newlyweds. Maybe going to Kopp's Frozen Custard, even though the temperature will be in the thirties (spoiler alert: not optimal frozen custard weather).

In case you can't tell, I'm having the best time in Milwaukee. PDaughter and I are having an experience we'll share forever. I'm cherishing this time with my parents.

This is my Thanksgiving.

What are you thankful for?

Hello, Milwaukee

DRUNKARDS. I'm in Milwaukee. I'm. In. Milwaukee.

And if you don't understand why that makes me so very happy, then you don't come here very often.

Where my heart is.

You guys, I haven't been in my hometown in 25 years. And Precocious Daughter has never seen her ancestral home. But for the next few days, we're here. And we're having the most fabulous time.

We arrived yesterday, and it was 34 degrees with a 25 mph north wind. Yeah, it was freaking cold. I honestly thought PDaughter might perish - not from the cold, but from her anxiety about the cold. Texas born and raised, she is. But I admit, while I tried to laugh off her cold-bloodedness and face the raw day with bravado...it's been 25 years, and I thought it was damn freaking cold. And it's only November; in January this will seem totally balmy.

Put on an extra pair of socks and 30 pounds of blubber,
it'll be fine.

It's been so nice to see my parents, and my brother and his wife. And tomorrow...you guys, tomorrow I'm having dinner with Southside Shelly, who is one of my best friends on Earth, and I can't wait.

I'm pretty happy right now.

Today, PDaughter and I went to the Milwaukee Art Museum, which is an absolutely amazingly gorgeous building designed by renowned architect Santiago Calatrava. It sits right on Lake Michigan, on the edge of downtown Milwaukee, just north of the Summerfest grounds.

Summerfest is the granddaddy of music festivals,
and it happens every damn year.

I wanted PDaughter to see the art museum in any case, but it just so happens that it currently is hosting an exhibition on German Expressionist film. You may recall that PDaughter and I are fans. So we were psyched to see it.

IT WAS AMAZING.

Special effects were on fleek in 1924, you guys.

We had a great time touring the museum collections, and the museum itself is awe-inspiring.

After the museum, I drove PDaughter through downtown Milwaukee to Marquette University, where her dad went to grad school, and then through the South Side via 16th Street with views of the Mitchell Park Domes, Miller Park, and Wilson Park, all of which I plan to revisit in greater detail over the next few days.

I'm so happy to be home with my lovely daughter.

I'm so happy to be on vacation for the first time in too many moons.

I'm happy to see my parents, who have become elderly without my consent and therefore all the more precious to me.

I'll be here for a few more days, so if you're in the Milwaukee area and want to say hello, drop me a note. I'm more than available.

And very, very happy.