Happy VD from AD

 I don't have much to say today.

It's probably better that way.

But Valentine's Day is coming up soon. And I have even less to say about that.

Still, if you have a sweetheart, and you want to express your feelings in a way that is unique, adorable, and geeky as hell, I found this comic from Bird and Moon. Share it with someone you love who is also unique, adorable, and geeky as hell, should you be so fortunate as to have such a person.

Remember, I love you all. 

Sad, But Also...

Tonight I'm grieving a young man I never met. But he was someone special to someone who is special to me. So I grieve for both of them, the one who is gone too soon and the one who is left behind. Because there is, unfortunately, more than enough grief to go around when someone takes his own life.

I feel sad, but I also feel dumb. I ask myself inane questions: Did this happen despite all the holiday spirit whirling about, or because of it? Was it an act of passion or dispassion? Was there a moment when he changed his mind, but it was too late to choose survival over capitulation? The questions get increasingly desperate the longer I think about them, because the only person who could have answered them has gone silent forever.

I feel sad, but I also feel angry. Because suicide is an act of supreme selfishness, of self-indulgence, of arrogance. Goddammit, what gives you the right to decide that ending your pain in the moment is worth the pain that will be endured forever in your memory? I don't want to be angry, but anger is a stage of grief, and the only way past it is through it.

I feel sad, but I also feel solidarity. Because I've sat in a dark room in the middle of the night, crying because I couldn't find a reason to choose life. I've felt the sharp, quick fear that I could only see one choice before me, and I knew it was terrible and permanent but felt helpless to resist it. In the end I, many years ago, found just enough strength to turn away and make a different choice, as difficult as that was. Why didn't this young man find just enough strength? What if I had been just like him?

I feel sad. The life that was taken had promise, had potential. This was a person who was loved, not the way a celebrity or a statesman is loved, ostentatiously and ultimately impersonally. He was loved by real people, in the small ways that can easily be missed if you're too focused on the voids in your life. The ways that don't seem like enough when you don't feel you're enough.

We're enough. Every last one of us. And I wish it wasn't too late for this young man, and I wish I could say it to everyone who needs to hear it and believe it in their bones. Maybe everyone reading this can help spread the word.

Please call the Suicide & Crisis Hotline by calling or texting 988 if you don't believe you can choose life. You're not alone.

Make Fetch Happen

 Let me tell you something about Tacocat.

Other than the fact that he's gorgeous.

He does something that no cat I've owned has ever done.

He plays fetch.

As in, full-on, throw the ball and bring it back fetch. 

Tacocat has a number of stuffed toys - mousies, balls, etc. When I'm sitting on my couch, he will bring one to me and drop it next to me. I'll throw it across the room, and he'll chase it and bring it back to me, making little chirping noises to let me know he's back in the event that I'm doing something rude like watching TV or typing something on my phone.

I'll throw it again, and he'll bring it back again.

Repeat literally dozens of times.

This is the cutest thing I've ever seen.

He's very proud of his stuffie.

As I'm writing this, Tacocat has interrupted me at least five times to throw his stuffed ball. It's not as if I'm going to say no to a cat who wants to play fetch, right?

Make that six.

All cats are different. The Siamese Kitten never played fetch in her life. And let's make it clear - I certainly never taught or encouraged Tacocat to do this. It's just his thing. He brought it with him, and it's his.

I guess we all have our things. Take 'em or leave 'em, we have our things. To love us is to just...accept them.

I accept a cat who plays fetch.

I freaking love a cat who plays fetch, to tell the truth.

What is your fetch - your thing that makes you, you, take it or leave it?

Let me know.

A New Cat to Be Crazy About

 Hey, everyone. Here's my cat. For the purpose of this here blog, Imma call him the Tacocat.

Longtime readers may recall that I previously had two cats - one was the Siamese Kitten, who was my constant companion and official Best Cat Ever. The other was the Chongers, the sweet tuxedo cat who came to me and Precocious Daughter in a strange and wonderful way right before the pandemic started (hey! remember the pandemic?) and was the bestest boy until his sudden and untimely passing in February 2023.

Two months after the Chongers left us, and not long after I did my last post before my extended hiatus, the Siamese Kitten left us. She was 16 1/2, and she was just an old girl who tried her best to go on, but I made the decision to let her go before she could suffer.

In the space of two months I went from cat-mom of two to empty nester. Coming on the heels of PDaughter moving to New York to pursue her dream of not living in Texas, it was a lot to get used to. I do firmly believe that the Siamese Kitten's tiny little ghost still lives with me, but that's another post. And anyway, a ghost-cat isn't the same as an actual live cat. For one thing, ghost cats don't wrap their needle-tipped paws around your arm and bite you for no damn reason at all.

Not my cat, but definitely the same vibe.

So I got used to living really, truly alone. I also got used to other things, like not having to sweep cat hair out of every corner of every room every day. And not constantly stepping on little pebbles of cat litter. Also, not having to haul big jugs of said litter from the car to my apartment every few weeks. Ooh, and not having bowls of food and water on the floor to attract bugs.

No, look, I was totes sad. But the point is, life goes on, and we all adapt to change. And I just wasn't emotionally ready to welcome a new kitty into my life immediately after losing two in a short space of time. The other stuff was just gravy. Sad, non-messy gravy.

Well, a year went by, and PDaughter decided I had had enough time to grieve. She came home for a visit, ostensibly to see family and friends, but with a very ulterior motive. On a Saturday morning, she marched me out to the car (it wasn't much of a march, I was a bit hungover) and drove me to the local no-kill shelter. It was time, she said. Time for a new cat.

And there, the Tacocat found us. My resistance was low (again, hungover), and he looked deep in my eyes and said, "There's an easy mark."

Look at this photogenic bastard.

So they boxed him up and we took him home. 

His first day home.
He had just peed in a closet.

You guys, I've always wanted a tabby cat. So it's pretty lucky that he is. It certainly wasn't his personality that drew me to him. That came later, and it went hard. More on that in future posts. 

For now, I just wanted to introduce my Drunkards to this stripey boy who has totally won my heart. 

I may write a poem about him. You've been warned.

I'm Running a Sh*tshow, Part 4

Guys, I think...this is the last installment of the Great Office Move of 2023! 

Here are the first three parts if you want to review:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

So. We are moved in. Those of you who have moved home or office before know what "moved in" means. We are fully out of the old place. We are fully in the new place. All the boxes are unpacked. Their contents are spread out in an ungodly patternless mess, and nobody quite knows where to put it all or where to find it in the meantime.

You know, moved in.

Or, everything everywhere all at once. As it were.

I'll spare you the details of the long days and the 10,421 details I've been chasing. They're not interesting, not even to me. But here are a few tidbits to tie off this stressful, difficult, maddening, weird experience for good and all. Enjoy.

People who know what they're doing are amazing, no matter what they do. I benefited from the experience and skill of so many people, from furniture installers to electricians to construction workers who somehow turned a cavernous empty space into a beautiful, modern, perfectly put-together office. I couldn't do one percent of what these talented men (and they were almost entirely men in this case) could do, and they all have my mad respect for their hard work.

Making hard decisions is hard. The day before all 100+ people were supposed to report to the new office - a Sunday afternoon - I received word that a number of electrical and other problems hadn't been resolved. All through the buildout process, my boss had been adamant about our move-in date. Adamant. And he had left it in my hands to make it happen. On that Sunday afternoon I conferred with several other people who 1) believed it couldn't happen but 2) had no intention of saying that on the record. It was, without a doubt, the biggest and most difficult judgment call I ever had to make in my 350-year (or whatever it's been) career. In the end I made the decision to recommend pushing back the sacred move-in day. And my boss acted on my recommendation. And...it was the right call. 

Artist's rendering of my boss hearing
the bad news.

People's priorities are...weird. Our new building has some sweet amenities, including a state-of-the-art gym that includes a yoga studio and showers with towel service. I had people asking me a week before we even moved in when they could start using the facilities. And when I sent out the forms required to get access, it seemed as if the entire business of unpacking, not to mention the actual, you know, work that we all do, stopped dead. I was inundated, first with forms and then with people asking when the access they'd requested 30 minutes earlier would kick in. Never mind that some people still didn't have internet or couldn't find the boxes containing their belongings. All they wanted was to ride the communal sweaty Peloton. For the record, I'll bet an internet dollar that 80% of those people will never use the gym.

Office fixtures are stupid expensive. The whiteboards in our conference rooms cost $700. Each. Those are the smaller ones. The larger ones were over $1,000 each. We spent $60,000 on window shades. The chair at my desk cost $900, and there are more than 60 of them in the office. This is a racket. OMG.

I developed a moderate crush on our construction superintendent. I'm going to call it moderate. Not like a "I have dreamed of him" crush. OK, that's a lie, I have totally dreamed of him. He is super-competent, he is kind, he's smart and funny, and he comes by almost every day to make sure all the little things that need fixing are fixed. He's also so cute. He is married, he has adorable kids, he's 20 years younger than I am, and oh yeah I'm in a committed relationship with a Drummer Boy whom I love with all my heart. But I can, you know, dream. 

I'm a dirty old lady with the heart of a child.

That's the end of this saga. Back to the daily grind, albeit in much nicer digs than before. Was the extreme stress worth it? Probably not. But it gave me four blog posts, and in my world that's a win.

May you live in less interesting times than mine. Thanks for reading.

I Haven't Been Writing

 Those of you who know me IRL or follow the Always Drunk Facebook page know that last week we suddenly, sadly lost our beloved junior tuxedo cat, the Chongers.

July 9, 2009 - February 8, 2023

He was the best boy, and losing him just derailed me. I had so many things I was planning to write here, and just like that, they were gone, as if he took my thoughts with him when he passed. Losing a loved one will do that.

So I haven't been writing. I know that's not how a "real" writer is supposed to deal with sadness. We're supposed to write our way out, over, and through our troubles, use them and bend them to our will like the creative geniuses we are (or aspire to be). 

But sometimes tragedies don't look like inspiration, and troubles don't act like a muse. And sometimes I just want to be sad when something sad happens. So I haven't been writing.

Tomorrow I'll go to the vet - the same vet that saved the Chonger's life shortly after he joined our family in 2020 - and get a little box containing his ashes. And I'll be sad all over again that he left us so unexpectedly. I'll put in on the shelf with the other little boxes containing the ashes of other sweet kitties who left us. I know there are those who will think these boxes are a waste of money and shelf space. And that's OK. I couldn't argue the point if I wanted to. Because I haven't been writing.

This right here, this isn't really writing. This is me filling some space with some words, just to let you know I'm still here. I can't wait to get back to bringing you dumb little posts about monkeys or politics or pooping in a box, which is something else I haven't been doing - but I will. And I'll write about it. Whether you want to read it or not. Because that's what writers do. I guess.

Anyway, tonight I'm snuggling with my Siamese Kitten, who I never expected to outlive the Chongers, but here she is and here we are. Never assume you know how life is going to unfold and who will be there as it does. Love everyone you can. Don't be afraid to say it.

And don't be afraid to write it down.

Wii Are Not Amused

Drummer Boy brought his old Wii to my place last week. 

So to speak.

This old Wii, as if you didn't know.

You guys, back in the day I really loved playing Wii. Precocious Daughter was around 10 when we got one and was always willing to strap on a controller and play a few tennis matches or a bowling tournament. It was almost more fun to watch her play with her friends, though. We had a big family room in those days with plenty of room to jump around like idiots, and they did.

I'm not sure what happened to the Wii. I assume it went with my ex when we sold the house, like almost everything else. Or maybe we sold it. In any event, I had been Wii-less for a number of years.

I was super-excited when Drummer Boy pulled out his Wii for me. So to speak.

Seriously, you guys, knock it off.

I got to make my little Mii! That was always my favorite part. I remember when The Godfather came out on XBox, I spent at least two hours creating my character, but I don't remember anything about the actual game. 

That game did have one of the most amazing
character-making thingies, though.

Anyway, all week I've been playing Wii games. It's been a major nostalgic rush, not to mention good exercise for my middle-aged bones. I can't jump around like an idiot, because these days I have downstairs neighbors, but all the flailing is good for my arm-wattles, at least.

So eventually in the course of my playing, I got around to Wii disc golf. And found myself on the horns of a dilemma.

They looked like this.

Some history:

Back in the 90s, my ex was super into disc golf. And I frequently played with him. We were good little GenXers that way. He was pretty good at the game. I was pretty terrible. And I was not OK with that. 

It's not that I was a particularly competitive person. I didn't mind losing. But I did mind not being good at it. I've always hated not being good at things. Like, temper-tantrum-throwing hated.

Not an actual photo of me, but sure as hell
could be.

For all the flaws in our relationship, I was always able to be exactly who I am with my ex. He knew that I was going to react to a bad throw or a missed putt with yelling, cursing, and pouting, and he accepted it. I would get it out of my system, and we would continue playing. And the next time I made a bad throw or missed an easy putt, I would yell, curse, and pout again. 

I'm not proud of being that person in my 20s. I'm pleased that I'm much more able to control my tantrums these days. But that angry, insecure woman-baby still lives in me. Oh, yes.

Now, sometimes, back in the day, Drummer Boy would play disc golf with my ex and me. If you don't know that portion of my personal history, here it is in a nutshell: Drummer Boy was my ex's friend first, then he was my friend, then he was my partner. And yeah, there's a little more to it than that, but we're not going there today.

"The past is never dead. It's not even past."
That Faulkner boy knew his stuff.

The point is, when Drummer Boy played disc golf with us, I was always on my best behavior. He scared the hell out of me in those days, did my Drummer Boy. Half the time I wouldn't even play when he was with us. I'd caddy, or just kibbitz. That was the best way to avoid losing my shit over bad play.

Fast forward a certain number of years. Drummer Boy knows and accepts my flaws. I have no idea why, but he does. But, as I've gotten older, I've realized that in a relationship, there is virtue in being your best self, even if your partner already knows your worst self. It's just nice, you know?

But here's the thing. This week, when I was playing Wii disc golf by myself, I reverted instantly to the old Mii, er, me. The one who cursed a blue streak after every bad throw. And there were a lot of bad throws. A. Lot. I'm no better at playing Wii disc golf than I was at real disc golf, and I'm certainly not a more gracious competitor. I made an effort to at least keep my voice down, but my neighbors probably think I'm a crazy person, if not a homicidal maniac. 

I Googled "shocked neighbors" to find an illustration.
This came up, and I'm going with it.

And now it's the weekend, and Drummer Boy is here, and part of me really wants to play Wii disc golf with him. But I know what's going to happen if I do. 

I don't really want to be that person in front of him. But I also don't really want to pretend to be someone I'm not. We're too far along in our relationship for such nonsense. And frankly, I'm not going to enjoy the game as much if I can't lose my shit over it.

As I said, a dilemma. And I don't know what to do about it.

What would you do, Drunkards?

Black-Eyed Peas: A Comedy in Three Parts

There are a few things you should know about me.

I don't do TikTok challenges.

I don't vote Republican.

I don't eat black-eyed peas on New Year's Day.

The first two are self-explanatory: I want to leave a better world for the children, which precludes voting to sustain a patriarchal, wealth-based oligarchy in the latter case and filming myself doing weird shit in yoga pants in the former.

The black-eyed peas are a bit more complicated.

Part 1: The Tradition

Growing up in the Midwest, it was traditional to eat pickled herring for good luck on New Year's Day. Or maybe it was New Year's Eve. It doesn't matter, as there is no day in the calendar year on which I'm going to eat pickled goddamn herring. I never saw the correlation between good fortune and consuming half-liquefied fermented fish out of a jar. In fact, to everyone who did this on New Year's Day last year, I would just like to gesture expansively at literally the entirety of 2020.

I rest my case.

I've now been living in Texas for my entire adult life. For the most part I love Texas food. If I were a Lone Star-themed Statue of Liberty standing proudly on the shore of White Rock Lake (work with me here), the words engraved on my pedestal would include "Give me your chili (no beans), your brisket, your chicken-fried steak smothered in white gravy, your deep-friend corn dogs but with ketchup not mustard because I have my limits, people..."

Yet black-eyed peas are a Texas staple whose appeal has alluded me. My background in beans (because black-eyed peas are deceptively-named little bastards and are in fact beans) is in the baked or pork-and varieties. I like my beans tomatoey and/or molassessessey. I was always a little suspicious of a pot of watery spotted legumes cooked with a few hunks of salt pork and not much else. They just seemed so...naked to me.

More importantly, eating black-eyed peas on New Year's Day wasn't a tradition I was brought up with (up with which I was not brought...forget it). I was never introduced to it by a Southern friend or by the Texan side of my ex-spouse's family. And because the alternative in my childhood was eating the aforementioned goddamned melted stinkfish, I didn't have any food-based good-luck rituals in my life at all.

Until this year.

Part 2: Spam

According to the good people at Hormel, the potted meat product SPAM should always be written in all-caps. This seems slightly pretentious to me, like the way Ted Allen on "Chopped" refers to Twinkies as "sponge cake snacks," and also my pinkies are going to get tired if I have to hold down the shift key that much. So for the purposes of this post, I'll risk the wrath of the purists by using Spam henceforth.

So. How did we go from black-eyed peas on New Year's Day to Spam? Actually, it was the other way around.

Until January 1st, 2021, I had never in my life eaten Spam. The reasons are similar to the reasons I had never eaten black-eyed peas, so I won't repeat them. If you've already forgotten or are in the habit of only skimming what I write, hoping something interesting will eventually catch your eye (did you think I didn't know what you were doing? pfffft), go back and re-read Part 1. Slacker.

OK, so I already knew that Spam was going to be on the menu at Casa Baudelaire this weekend. I knew that my darling Drummer Boy has been in the grip of a mild Spam mania recently and had purchased several cans of the stuff to "cook" at my place. 

I don't know exactly where his sudden interest in Spam came from. It's healthy to preserve some unplumbed depths in your partner's psyche, I guess? I also didn't know just how many varieties of the spicy, fatty, ostensibly meaty processed foodstuff are available.

Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam spam...

Yeah. That's a lot. 

So on New Year's Day, Drummer Boy brought over a can of this:

Because boy, if there's anything that a can of uber-processed, salty, fatty, nitrite-filled meat needs added to it, it's BACON.

But I was game. New year, new me. Same old colon, which clearly was about to be subjected to a workout it had never before experienced and wasn't asking for now. Still, nothing wrong with a little indulgence to kick off 2021. I haven't eaten a burger in nine months, my colon should be clean as a whistle and ready to cut loose. Slice it, fry it, eat it up, that's my motto. It works in a surprising number of situations. You should try it.

Anyway, then shit got real. From inside his cooler (the man travels with a cooler, he doesn't screw around), Drummer Boy pulled out this:

Not gonna lie, I felt ambushed.

Part 3: The Recipe

Once I decided not to unceremoniously kick the man I love to the curb for this blatant abuse of my trust, I threw up my hands and said, "Whatever, dude." It's that spirit of compromise that has carried us through the tough times. 

Actually, we basically broke up for several months during 2020, because fuck the pandemic, but we patched things up and emerged stronger than ever, also because fuck the pandemic. But that's a story for another time. I'm here to talk about goddamned black-eyed peas right now.

So Drummer Boy started doing things in my kitchen. He sliced up the Spam.

He fried it up.

And then, just as I was getting comfortable with the whole thing, he added...cocktail weiners.

If you're going to try to kill your girlfriend with unhealthy meat products, you should just go all the way. That apparently is his motto. I can't really recommend it.

Then he added chopped onion. Pro-tip: If you loathe the disgusting crunchy texture of onions, as I do, keep some on hand in the freezer. When they cook up, they turn quickly to undetectable mush while retaining their flavor-enhancing, um, flavor.

Can't have onion without garlic, so in it went.

I gotta admit, so far this pan full of fried meat was cooking up pretty damn tasty. But the Spam and Li'l Smokies concoction was not destined to remain on its own. It was time to add the namesake ingredient.

Am I the only one who heard Bernard Herrmann's score from Psycho just then? No? Skip it.

By the way, per Hillshire Farms, the correct nomenclature is "Lit'l Smokies Cocktail Links." I don't know what Ted Allen calls them. He never returns my calls, although he did like one of my tweets one time. 

I LOLed.

Moving on. In a big old pot, Drummer Boy simmered up some broth (Better Than Bouillon, half-chicken and half-vegetable) seasoned with a secret blend of herbs and spices. "Secret blend" sounds better than "I wasn't paying attention." There was definitely black pepper. And maybe, I don't know, nutmeg? Probably not nutmeg. If you make black-eyed peas you surely know how to season them. Knock yourself out.

So he let all that cook down for a while. And then - game changer - he removed some of the beans and liquid to a bowl and went to town with my immersion blender. OK, this is actually a super-common technique for thickening soups and other dishes, so not really a game changer. There's only so much dramatic tension I can create from a goddamn recipe. Play along.

Anyway, Drummer Boy poured the warm bean slurry (which is totally the name of my 00s alt-rock playlist on Spotify) back into the pot and stirred it all together. 

You guys. It was delicious. I mean, obviously a dish consisting mostly of salt, fat, prayers to the cholesterol gods and also tangentially black-eyed peas is going to be delicious. But damn.

Sloth-tested, sloth-approved.

I now feel lucky, punk. Seriously, I am going to look 2021 in the eye and punch it right in its stupid face while singing showtunes and dressing inappropriately for my age. That kind of lucky.

And it's all thanks to a pot of black-eyed peas that, honestly, I would have wanted no part of had it been brought to my attention ahead of time. Oh, and had it not been cooked by that guy who keeps coming around and telling me he loves me for reasons I can't entirely fathom.

The love of a good man and food ambushes. It's all I need this year.

Oh, and some of that dismantling the patriarchy and remembering the lives lost to Covid-19. 

Those beans have a lot of heavy lifting to do.

Good luck, Drunkards. Let's have a happy fucking New Year if we can.

Meet the Chonk

As a rule, I'm slow to engage with the world.

My comfort zone is small, my appetite for adventure is limited, and I find social risk-taking absolutely exhausting. I sometimes wish I weren't this way, but the truth is I usually stay in my lane. And my lane has a solid yellow line on one side and a concrete barrier on the other.

But sometimes, with the help of the few good people who love me, I act out of character and take a chance. I did that recently, with awesome results.

Meet the Chonk.

He doesn't look so chonky here.
But trust me, him CHONKY.

A few weeks ago, my sister-from-a-fever-blister The Jeneral tagged me in a Facebook post. The post was by someone who was posting for a friend of hers who's not on social media. Got that?

Anyway, this friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend was having to give up her older cat because the new property managers at her apartment complex wouldn't let her have three pets (she also had two doggos). So after 10 years, she had to say goodbye and try to find him a good home somewhere else. And she only had a few days in which to do it. I can't even imagine how painful that would be, you know?

I wasn't in the market for an extra cat - the Siamese Kitten is more than enough most days - but I wanted to help The Jeneral. I posted vaguely about reaching out to some Dallas-area rescue groups that I follow. That was within my restricted comfort zone. It was easy. It was safe.

But something about this poor lady's situation really resonated with me. How terribly sad for her. And what about the handsome boy who was being unceremoniously kicked out of the only home he'd ever known? If he was lucky he'd end up with a sympathetic rescue that would try to get him adopted, instead of an animal shelter where his days were numbered.

This was a situation where someone truly needed to open their heart and step up. But it wasn't going to be me. That's just not my thing.

Then Precocious Daughter came over for dinner.

I wasn't going to say anything about the Chonk. PDaughter would probably find it a sad story, and say what a shame it was, and basically make me feel like a coward for wanting to stay a long arm's length from the problem. Someone else's problem. Not mine.

So I told her the story, and showed her the Chonk's picture, and read her the post. And I wondered vaguely if I was foolishly giving her the opportunity to talk me into something I was totally not comfortable doing.

Here's another picture of the Chonk:

Stretch mode engaged.

We murmured about what a sweet boy he seemed to be, and what a terrible position his human was in, and how we hoped he would find a home. I said I would try to help spread the word (and nothing more).

And then she said: "You know, I have plenty of room in my apartment."

I looked at her. She looked at me.

And then she said: "And I really would like a pet, but a dog just isn't possible with my schedule."

I looked at her. She looked at me.

And incredibly I heard myself say: "And if you had a cat, and you brought him home with you on school breaks, it really would be better for the Siamese if it was an older cat."

We looked at each other.

And then she said: "What's his name?"

I blinked. Somehow, in reading the Facebook post, I hadn't managed to catch the name of the cat. I read through it again.

I looked at PDaughter. "His name...is (*)." *Regular readers know that I don't use real names here, not even pet names. Suffice it to say the Chonk's real name is exemplary and made us shout with joy at what a perfect cat name it is.

And in unison (I'm not making this up), we said, "That's it, we have to take this cat."

Typing "we'll take him" on that Facebook post was difficult. But exhilarating. And once I got the phone number of the very nice lady who was the Chonk's mom, making that call was excruciating (making phone calls to strangers is my personal version of Hell). I wanted to not do it. I wanted to announce I had changed my mind, sorry, good luck. But I didn't. And it all turned out so well.

When PDaughter and I - crazily, impetuously - decided to adopt the Chonk, I never asked where he and his mom lived. The Dallas Metroplex is HUGE, and it occurred to me that we may have committed to driving an hour or more to collect this cat (driving long distances to strange places is another less-than-favorite thing of mine). They lived...ten minutes from me.

Then, when we went to meet them, it occurred to me that so many things could go wrong: the cat wouldn't like us, his mom wouldn't like us. PDaughter and I were both harboring worry that everything would fall apart and end in disappointment. Nope. The Chonk was an absolute love bug from the minute we walked in, and his mom was a lovely lady who was truly grateful to us. Which we thought was nuts, because we're truly grateful she didn't throw us out and proclaim us to be unfit adopters.

One more picture of the Chonk:

Home. :)

The Chonk lives with PDaughter in her campus apartment. After a few shy days, he's settled in nicely. When they come home for Spring Break, the Chonk and the Siamese Kitten will meet for the first time. I hope they get along. I hope they don't destroy my apartment. It will be fun!

I'm amazed at how well this all went. I actually stepped up and helped someone. I did a good thing. It felt wonderful. It was terrifying. I don't know how long it will be before I do something similar again. I hope it will be less than never. Because it made me feel really good.

Thanks to The Jeneral for getting me into this mess.

We love our chonky boy.

Home Sweet Home

Precocious Daughter is home for Thanksgiving week.

We're having ham, friend. Truce?

She's never more than 30 minutes from me when she's "away" at school, and she visits at least once a week, so it's not as if this is a major homecoming. But it does mark roughly three months that I've been living mostly on my own. And it's nice to have a break from that.

It's nice to hear someone else moving around, you know? 

Other than the Siamese Kitten. At least PDaughter doesn't zoom back and forth in the middle of the night.

Is that why they do it?

It's nice to have a well-stocked fridge. She actually eats 2-3 meals a day - I've kind of gotten out of that habit, honestly.

It's nice to listen to her talk and laugh and make goofy sounds (she gets the random-goofy-sound gene from me, but I when I'm by myself, I mostly just stay silent).

It's just nice to have her around.

On Thursday we'll make Thanksgiving dinner - not a huge production, but all the basics. And after we've eaten, she'll pack up the leftovers and take them to her dad. Yes, I'm making Thanksgiving dinner for my ex. 

Not even the weirdest thing to happen since we split.

It's all good.

On Friday, PDaughter and I are going to see a performance of The Nutcracker. And Saturday is her birthday. She'll be 19 - the last of her teenage years, and probably the last year I can consider her in any way a child.

And on Sunday, she'll go back to her dorm to finish her first semester of college.

Time flies, doesn't it?

American Drunkards...what are your plans for Thanksgiving week?

This Could Be Its Own HGTV Show, Yes?

So when I was updating you guys on my status after ghosting you for three months, I neglected to include the status of my relationship with Drummer Boy.

So, yeah.

The status of my relationship with Drummer Boy is

...

...

...

...

Pffft, it's awesome.

Psych.

Our particular love story has not always occupied the Awesome Zone. In fact, during my hiatus we faced a number of difficulties. Or...he faced a number of difficulties caused by me. Because I can be a pretty terrible person, and I don't deserve him. But we're stupid in love, and with Precocious Daughter matriculated and in college, we recognize that we're an important step closer to our happily ever after.

But I need your input on one particular issue we're facing.

It doesn't involve sex, so resume normal lung function.

Someday Drummer Boy and I will actually live under the same roof. It's not a thing right now, for various reasons. But one day I assume the stars will align in favor of us cohabitating, at which point we'll have a number of tough decisions to make.

Fortunately, we both drink the same soda, so that's a huge relief.

Zevia is the BEST. No aspartame, no caffeine, tons of flavors.
Pricey, but worth it if you only drink a couple of sodas a week.
(Not a paid advertisement, but I wouldn't turn it down.)

Anyway, right now we both live in the burbs of Dallas. Neither of us is a homeowner. I'm not sure I ever want to own a single-family home again. I don't dig the constant upkeep. I'm loving apartment living; I live in a particularly nice complex, and I pay for it, but it's totally worth it. If I were to define my dream home, my forever home, it would probably be a townhouse in a walkable part of the city.

Drummer Boy lives in the suburban home of his elderly parents, which is a beneficial arrangement for everyone. It's a much nicer house than either of us (together or separately) could ever hope to afford. His dream home is one with, in his words, "no one else around."

Urban townhouse vs. isolated compound.

Sense the tension?

I know we'll work it out. If anything, the chances of a couple of middle-aged divorced Gen Xers living anywhere by choice rather than necessity seem slim. When we get to live together, we'll go where the housing gods toss us.

But I'm interested to know if any of you have faced a similar challenge. Not necessarily with housing, but any situation where you and your SO had markedly different ideas about an important decision. How did you deal with it? Are you happy with the way it worked out?

Let me know in the comments, Drunkards.

Love Is Strength. Never Weakness

Because I'm a middle-aged suburban mom, I have only the vaguest idea who Chris Hardwick is. And until today I had no idea who his ex-SO Chloe Dykstra was.

And then she began trending on Twitter.

Here she is. I won't be posting a picture of him.

And then Wil Wheaton - who I follow on Twitter and whom I respect and adore - posted an extremely vague tweet about having to process some bad news about his "best friend." So I finally had to investigoogle what was up.

And I discovered that Chloe Dykstra had quietly published this article on Medium.

I totally encourage you to read her post if you haven't. But in a nutshell: As a fledgling cosplayer/actor, she met a successful comedian/podcaster who went on to co-found Nerdist, a wildly successful online forum for, well, nerds (who have a LOT of cultural and financial clout, as it turns out [go nerds]). And they had a relationship for three years.

And while he seemed to all outward appearances to be a charming, funny guy...truth (according to Chloe) is, he was an emotionally and sexually abusive partner who destroyed her self-esteem before she had the courage to leave him.

After reading her honest, emotionally raw account, I have no reason to disbelieve any part of it. She is incredibly brave to seek closure to this toxic relationship so openly. If she wanted fame and fortune, she would have sold her story to a tabloid or TMZ. Instead she published it on a website without even a public link. But people found it, and spread it, and talked about it until its inherent credibility became undeniable.

Which is exactly how truth should work.

As regular readers know, I not so long ago ended a marriage of more than two decades.

In fact, yesterday - Flag Day in the USA - was the second anniversary
of my divorce being final. God Bless America 'n stuff.

Let me be perfectly clear: The vast majority of what Chloe chronicles in her relationship NEVER happened in mine.

But bits and pieces resonate with me. Deeply. And those bits and pieces make me believe her when she describes the systematic anguish of living with an abuser.

Maybe you can relate.

I'm friends with my ex-spouse. But I would never consider a physical or emotional relationship with him again. Because our relationship is a Venn diagram.

Our lives intersect in that little slice of forgiveness in the middle. Which is fine. Great, even.

I consider myself fortunate to be in a loving, respectful relationship now.

I don't dwell on what went wrong in my marriage. And I consider myself fortunate to be able to do that, too.

But I support Chloe Dykstra and all the women like her...because I understand what can, and does, happen in relationships.

And while I have utter faith in due process, I don't condone the systemic dismissal of women who bravely choose to be honest about their tribulations.

I hope all of you - male, female, gay, straight, somewhere in between - are happy where you are. I also hope that, if you're not, you can get back to the light. The light wants you. Believe that.

#MeToo

Try a Little Tenderness

Here is some unsolicited advice to people who are single.

People:

Seek a partner who is KIND.

Kind to you. Kind to their relatives and co-workers. Kind to wait staff, cashiers, homeless people, customer service reps, and complete strangers.

Someone who smiles when a smile is literally all they have to offer.

Someone who treats everyone equally, whether they're wearing a Rolex or somebody's cast-off clothes.

Seek a partner who accepts others' flaws (including yours) and owns theirs.

Never settle for anyone who tries to substitute wealth and status for empathy, humility, and kindness.

I'm not religious, but I do believe we all have a soul. It's where our core decency resides.

People with deformed souls definitely exist.

It's not your job to redeem them.

Hold out for kindness. If you can't find it in someone else, please embody it in yourself. You won't regret it. I promise.

Edit: This is also advice for people who are in relationships. If you are not with a kind person, leave. At least, consider leaving. You deserve more. YES YOU DO.

YOU DESERVE MORE.

Signed, The Most Fortunate Woman in the Blogosphere.

Ten Things I Wish I'd Gotten for My Birthday

On my 50th birthday, I got some lovely body wash and lotion from Precocious Daughter.

I got a card with some cash from my parents.

I got a bottle of local honey and a pot of delicious chicken orzo soup from Drummer Boy.

I got a wooden squirrel from Pablo.

And I got a bunch of birthday greetings from friends, family, and co-workers.

Warm fuzzies FTW.

The well wishes mean more to me than anything, because I'm not big on making a fuss about my birthday (other than this one because I turned 50, which turned out to be pretty much a nothingburger, tbh).

But if I were the type of person who judged the quality of my birthday by the gifts I received, I might be a teensy bit disappointed by my haul this year.

That's a huge if. I don't give a shit. If ever people make a fuss over me, I want it to be because I've finally published that damn book that continues to gestate within me like a weekend's worth of bad choices at Taco Bueno. Not because I managed to clock another year without croaking.

But if I were...

I might let it slip that these were the birthday gifts I wish I'd received.

Take notes if you wish.

1. A monkey skull. Just a small one. Something to put on my knick-knack shelf.

2. An original hardback copy of Daniel Pinkwater's Lizard Music (the pink cover with the Escher-like lizards).

3. Digital copies of Michael Nesmith's Elephant Parts and "Television Parts," which I owned on VHS and stupidly threw away just because no one owned VHS tapes any more.

4. A single, real pearl. Because I don't think I've ever seen one up close.

5. A goldfish bowl, plus a package of Sea Monkeys and a package of Magic Rocks. I mean, do I even have to explain?

6. Some adult Garanimals. It's so hard to choose an outfit every day.

7. A corn snake.

8. An enormous plate of biscuits and gravy.

9. That amazing Custo Barcelona top I wore when I was a size small.

10. That size small body I had when I wore that Custo Barcelona top.

Wish lists are great.

Dream big, you guys.

The worst that can happen is that you end up with amazing things that money can't buy.

Or a corn snake.