Let Liz Speak

Okay, okay, okay, I swore that the next time I posted it would not be about politics and, come to think of it, that’s probably why I haven’t written anything in like 3 months, because, honestly, what the fuck else is any sane, thinking human being preoccupied with right now?!?!! So I decided to hone my outrage to one specific thing and that thing is motherfucking patriarchy! Specifically the atrocious and hypocritical treatment of Senator Elizabeth Warren during the Senate debate over the confirmation of Trump’s nominee for Attorney General, Alabama Senator Jeff Sessions.

On Tuesday Senator Warren attempted to read a letter written by Coretta Scott King. The letter had been sent to then Senator Strom Thurmond regarding Jeff Sessions’ nomination for a federal judiciary seat in 1986. In her 1986 letter the widow of the Civil Rights leader details how Sessions had continually made efforts to suppress the votes and voices of Black Americans in the State of Alabama. King laid out, in very measured language, how Sessions attempted to abuse the power of his office at the time in his “eagerness to bring to trial and convict three leaders of the Perry County Civic League…despite evidence clearly demonstrating their innocence of any wrongdoing”. Sessions was not confirmed for that Judiciary seat in 1986 by a vote of 10 to 8. Did you guys hear that? This guy was deemed too racist and polarizing to be  judge….IN 1986!!!!

Not once, in her letter, did King resort to name-calling, speculation or rhetoric. She simply recited history from an eyewitness point of view. So it was kind of slightly odd when Senate Majority Leader, Mitch McConnell stopped Senator Warren in the middle of her reading this letter to say that she was “impugning the character of a fellow Senator”. What happened next is straight out of my college journalism class where I would raise my hand to answer a question, get called on by my flagrantly sexist Indian journalism teacher (yeah, it was community college so he definitely does not get to be called a “professor”), provide the correct answer to his question only to have him tell me I was wrong, then call on the boy sitting next to me who said THE EXACT SAME FUCKING THING AS I JUST SAID and was told he was correct. It was literally like being in the Twilight Zone. I audibly said, simultaneously addressing everyone in the class and no one in particular “Isn’t that EXACTLY what I just said?!?!” which was met with general murmurs of confirmation and agreement.

McConnell interrupted Senator Warren’s remarks about Sessions and she was then reprimanded by the Senate Majority Leader. Warren was then gaveled down by Republican Senator Steve Daines (Montana) and told to “take her seat”. McConnell then cited rule XIX which prohibits debating senators from ascribing “to another senator or to other senators any conduct or motive unworthy or unbecoming a senator.” Which is pretty much a bullshit rule to begin with and one that no one has ever paid attention to until it came time to shut up an outspoken woman on the Senate floor. When asked about the silencing of one of his colleague McConnell responded by saying “She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless she persisted.” and now Mitch McConnell will have to live the rest of his short, miserable life knowing that thousands of feminists are at this very moment getting his words tattooed across their ribcages. Take that, patriarchy! Mitch McConnell’s very concise history of the Women’s movement was quickly turned into a meme because of course it was and #ShePersisted became one of the most awesome things on the internet for a few hours because that’s pretty much the shelf life of sensationalist internet memes.

screen-shot-2017-02-08-at-1-51-36-pm

screen-shot-2017-02-08-at-1-51-58-pm

screen-shot-2017-02-08-at-1-52-26-pm

screen-shot-2017-02-08-at-1-52-38-pm

screen-shot-2017-02-08-at-1-54-06-pm

screen-shot-2017-02-08-at-2-04-45-pm

Sadly, the fact that Senator Warren was censured, reprimanded like a disobedient school girl, ordered to sit down and shut up, and ultimately blocked from speaking by her male peers comes as no surprise. What was slightly more surprising and very irksome was that just a few hours after Senator Warren was ordered off the Senate floor Democratic Senator Jeff Merkley of Oregon picked up Mrs. King’s letter and read it in its entirety, uninterrupted by McConnell or his cronies. So to recap, it’s okay for a dude to violate rule XIX but not for a lady? Is that the lesson I was supposed to learn from watching C-SPAN yesterday? That my voice, because it issues from a body in possession of a vagina, will never be as valuable as the voices of my male peers and colleagues? Because THAT is shit! To be clear, I applaud Senator Merkley for picking up where Warren left off and using his voice to convey the messages that she could not. I just think it’s supremely fucked up that he had to do that in the first place.

screen-shot-2017-02-08-at-2-06-01-pm

Then there is the hypocrisy that goes along with all this shit. The fact that male Senators have, on record and on the Senate floor, called other colleagues horrible names and definitely impugned their characters but were never censured and rule XIX was never officially invoked. It was not invoked in May of last year when Republican Senator Tom Cotton of Arkansas had this to say about then Democratic Senate Minority leader Harry Reid:

“I’m forced to listen to the bitter, vulgar, incoherent ramblings of the minority leader,” “Normally, like every other American, I ignore them. I can’t ignore them today. . . . When was the last time the minority leader read a bill? It was probably an electricity bill. … This institution will be cursed less with his cancerous leadership.”

It was not officially invoked when, in the Summer of 2015, Republican Senator Ted Cruz called Senator Mitch McConnell a liar on the Senate floor. It was not invoked when Senator Harry Reid called his Republican colleagues “puppets” in 2007. It was not invoked when, in response to Reid’s comments, Republican Senator Arlen Specter fired back with the implication that Reid was not qualified enough to do his job. It was not invoked in the initial 1986 hearing when Senator Ted Kennedy called Jeff Sessions “a disgrace” (although Sessions was not then a sitting Senator). It was not invoked in 1979 when Republican Senator Lowell Weicker (Connecticut) called his colleague, Republican Senator John Heinz (Pennsylvania) “an idiot” and “devious”. Have you noticed anything about all those who were warned about Rule XIX but were not forced to “take their seat” or forced to “shut up” or ousted from the Senate floor? If you guessed they were all dudes you get a gold star for paying attention.

This serves to reinforce the idea that it is far more uncomfortable and outrageous when a woman is being tough and outspoken. I actually just read an “article” (those are my sarcastic air quotes) on the clearly bipartisan website Restate.com (nice name guys) about how liberals need to stop whining about Warren’s treatment and that “the Republicans treated Senator Ted Cruz much worse” for the comments he made about McConnell’s being a liar. That is just patently false. Cruz was never told to sit down and shut up. Cruz was never voted off the floor by his colleagues and to suggest that he was “treated much worse than Warren” is irresponsible, false and incendiary (and maybe someday we can talk about how right leaning news outlets feel the need to lie in order to maintain their narrative that the left are a bunch of nazi hypocrites who are also, somehow, hippies and whiners and cucks and stupid and elitist all at the same time but that conversation is for another day). Even if one scrolls down to the comment section on the C-SPAN video of Warren’s hour-long speech “impugning” Senator Sessions the majority of the comments are about how Warren is a mouthy bitch who needs to be put in her place. This despicable rhetoric is just being reinforced by those in the Senate and in the current White House who are more concerned with protecting the speech of Neo Nazis, white supremacist, anti-feminists and basically just racists and xenophobes of every stripe than it is concerned with hearing facts and history recited back to them by a well-respected sitting Senator.

My point, and I do have one, is to ask my Senate why it is okay for a man to call his fellow Senators names (idiot, cancerous, liar, bitter, devious, vulgar, disgrace etc.) but when a woman dips her toe into that territory she is immediately voted off the floor and told to “take her seat”? Did she not earn her Senate seat in the same manner as her male colleagues? Did she not work as hard or spend as much money (because honestly) to get where she is today? How can you say out of one side of your mouth that you “cannot understand why women think they need to march” while simultaneously exploiting your station to keep a woman silent? Do you not see what you’re doing? If not, let me assure you that we see what you’re doing and we’re not going to forget it….you useless, wrinkled, old, limp-dicked, fascists! (I threw in that last part for any Republicans reading this post [HA!] or anyone who wants to tell to “go high” because fuck that!)

And here is a link where you can buy your very own “Nevertheless She Persisted” T-shirt and a portion of the proceeds will go to Planned Parenthood! 

MAKE AMERICA PIE AGAIN!!!!

Because by god, don’t we fucking need something we can all agree on at this point??!!?!?!?!?!

“This is America, you live in it, you let it happen. Let it unfurl.”- The Crying of Lot 49

Look, I know, I really do know. I am really feeling it today. Particularly because I am a person who has a vagina. What happened last night has me even questioning whether women are people (and I know this sounds completely dramatic and ridiculous to some and to those I would point you to this very interesting article written about a month ago on Salon called “Are Women People”), when a man, simply because he is a man, can be elected to one of the most powerful and influential offices in the world despite his complete lack of experience, lack of qualifications, lack of any real solutions to any of the issues facing America or the world, lack of basic human decency in dealing with his fellow man, and lack of tact, grace, humility or warmth.

I know that his being a man was not the beginning and end of his appeal for those that voted for him. I also understand that Hillary’s appeal was…well, virtually nonexistent. Only the most die-hard Hillary supporters were able to look past the fact that she absolutely represented the Washington Old Guard and the worst of what old fashioned political double-dealing and backdoor politicking will get you. But she was, at the very least qualified. Very well qualified in fact which is why it is so maddening that she lost to a bellowing fucking spray-tanned clown in an ill-fitting suit and a red power tie with absolutely NO political experience. Politics and prostitution are the only two professions I can think of where your complete lack of experience could be considered a selling point regarding your ability to do the job. It’s completely insane. But I digress…I am not here to talk about campaigns or candidates or victory margins or the “white working class” or how or why this happened (okay, I might talk about that a little bit). I just want to talk about how it made me feel as a woman, as a feminist, as a mom and a person and what I am going to do about it!

It made me feel like no one will ever truly consider women to be equal to men. It made me feel voiceless and powerless, scared and small, sick and helpless. I am disgusted and so ashamed that this, this MAN will be the outward face of our country for the next four years. This man who judges and sexualizes women. This man who has tried to make so many of us feel so small for so long is now our “leader”. This man who is the literal and proverbial face of white nationalism and who has frothed up an Alt Right and white nationalist movement engaged solely by the fear of growing racial diversity in our country (oh, and maybe by the election of our nation’s first black president….that might have something to do with it too). Fear is incredibly potent and last night saw a record number of white males (and this is a statistical truth, not just my own brainwashed libtard assumptions) turn out to the polls to cast a vote for Trump. But for what were they really casting a vote?

They were voting with their fear, their fear that their white majority will disappear (it will, that’s just simple mathematics), their fear that their guns will be taken away (America, that’s never going to happen, we are going to be allowed to keep shooting each other to death until time runs out), fear that the “progressive agendas” were moving too far too fast (we are all going to be forced to attend HUGE gay, muslim weddings officiated by Germaine Greer and Grace Jones wherein all the bridesmaids are Ru Paul and John Leguizamo’s character from “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar”, all the guests are Syrian refugees, and the fucking cake is made out of kale or some shit…actually that sounds like one hell of a party…except for the kale cake. Can we, as a species just admit that no one really “loves” kale? It’s fucking terrible, okay!), and as we all know nothing motivates like fear (think “why America invaded Iraq”).

A lot of people are not ready for the America that will inevitably exist. The fight is hard, the setbacks are terrifying and it is every goddamn day but eventually THAT America will exist, the one where sexism is meaningfully and universally eschewed, the one where the lives of all human beings, no matter their age, religion, skin-tone, gender, sexuality, or ethnicity, are valued equally in the eyes of the law and our equality will be sacrosanct! The America where everyone will work to preserve a brighter, cleaner, more civil and more understanding future for the generations that follow us will absolutely exist! It’s just going to take a lot more time than we want it to….than we think we have, than we think we can bear but bear it we will because, Goddamnit, WE ARE AMERICANS! We do not stop fighting for what is good and what is just and what is right just because it’s hard or even because at times it seems impossible! It is when we are faced with what seem like insurmountable odds that we are forced to do our best work and I have no doubt that this country will, in fact be great, and it will have nothing to do with keeping it white, or keeping it insular, or keeping certain people out and other people silent! It will be because we will all rise up to include and value ALL voices and ALL faces because true democracy is about action and inclusion of EVERY person, not just the “right” people!

And it is for that vision that I am formally declaring my candidacy for President of the United States of America in 2020. I said back in March that when I fun for President my campaign slogan was going to be “Make America Pie Again” and, unlike some other filp-floppers, I absolutely stand by this statement! I will make America pie again! And since last night’s election proved to us that Americans are perfectly willing to vote someone with absolutely no political experience into the highest office in the land I think I’ve got a damn good shot at this thing! My platform is simple; I am running for basic human decency, basic human rights (food, shelter, medical care, all protections of all the laws, freedom of speech and expression, freedom from oppression and bigotry, freedom to practice whatever bullshit religion you feel most aligns with your personal ideals, but most of all your basic and inalienable right to eat motherfucking pie) for ALL, NO MATTER WHAT, AND THE RIGHT TO MOTHERFUCKING PIE! I stand for freedom, and pie, simple as that! If we cannot put a pie in every pot (chicken pot pie, perhaps?) then and only then can we truly say we have failed as a nation!!!!

Feel free and even encouraged to download the Bibliodiva For President “Make America Pie Again” bumper sticker jpeg below and share it on all your social media platforms. If you are truly committed to the cause of equal rights, equal pay and equal pie for all and want to display your pie pride outside of the internet, click on the link below and it will take you to a magical place where you can purchase your very own Bibliodiva For President “Make America Pie Again” bumper sticker that will totally exist in real life and not just on the internet! May we all eat pie and may god have mercy on our souls!!! BIBLIODIVA FOR PRESIDENT!!!!!

bumpersticker

Buy your Bibliodiva for President “Make America Pie Again!” bumper stickers & t-shirts HERE! 

Also, (drink) I did not edit this so there are probably a lot of typos but if you feel the need to point them out to me, well, you are just a fucking monster!

Also, also, just so you know how absolutely seriously I am taking this platform, here is a picture of my desk as I sit here writing this…

1109161423c

Yup, that’s Pie! 

 

Pussy Grabbing, Locker Room Talk and Why Trump’s Comments are Truly Problematic

pig-pile

We get it, men talk about pussy. They do, and they talk about it like that, like it’s a thing having nothing to do with an actual person and while it’s not ideal I think it’s fair to say that it is normal and will continue to be normal until societal norms change, and I am sure they will, slowly, but they will.

But until we live in an ideal society where everyone has their own unicorn and all lives of all human beings are valued equally and we all get together and hug it out at a big fucking ice cream social every Saturday afternoon, men are going to continue to talk about women and their vaginas like they are a commodity, something to be obtained in order to bolster their own self worth. But that’s not the problematic thing about Donald Trump’s comments that were caught on a hot mic in 2005. The problematic thing with the comments that the Donald made is that he explicitly talked about kissing women without their permission and then went on to talk about how he didn’t need permission because he was famous! It’s not because he said the word “pussy”! It’s because he talked about grabbing said pussy without obtaining consent to do so! I’ll allow that his talking about trying to “fuck” a married woman whilst being married himself is gross but I think it’s gross because it’s Donald Trump talking about fucking and that’s just toe-curling-ly nauseating! Was is very “presidential”? Certainly not but is anything that guy does?

Obviously we have had presidents in the past who were absolute poon-hounds and were absolutely unfaithful to their wives, before, during and after their presidencies but, as far as I know, none of them were ever caught on tape, describing themselves sexually assaulting women. And that is why Donald Trump parading all (okay obviously not all, it wasn’t that big of a room) the women who Bill Clinton slept with or sexually harassed or flashed or  who have accused him of sexual assault is not going to work for Donald. First of all using these women, who have already been through Hell, as a despicable political prop is pretty fucking lousy and just feels icky but the worst part is that, in doing this, Donald Trump seems to have completely disregarded that fact that Bill Clinton IS NOT THE ONE RUNNING FOR FUCKING PRESIDENT!!!! It’s like he can’t even treat Hillary like an individual human being and simply equates her to the closest man in her life.

But here’s the thing; Donald Trump wants to use the actions of Hillary’s husband against her, citing that because her husband did these things that somehow makes her unqualified to be president! WHAT THE DAMN HELL? So, on the same side of that coin, does Donald Trump’s wife posing naked on the cover of Max Magazine in 1997 (and naked on the inside of the same magazine with another naked woman in 1995) make him somehow morally deficient? My guess is that Donald Trump would argue that it makes him a “stud” because that is just the kind of grotesque, prepubescent logic and phrasing he would use. I find that Donald Trump’s repeated and continued attempts to use Bill’s actions as a case against Hillary to be genuinely disturbing and definitely a symptom of his own deeply held sexist attitudes towards women. Donald Trump is a sexist, I don’t think anyone can argue that point (although that won’t stop some from trying), but it’s the fact that there is an enormous segment of the population (as well as an enormous segment of people in positions of power) that is able and all-too-willing to overlook the fact that he is a sexist that is the real problem.

Which brings me to my next point, larger Republican establishment, why now? Why this audio? How is this the straw that finally broke the camel’s back? Is it because he said “fuck” and “bitch” and “pussy”? I’m guessing that’s why because you already knew who Donald Trump was, and this audio is EXACTLY who he is! You already knew that he was basically just a racist, upside down traffic cone filled with bile and overcooked steak who liked to start Twitter wars at 3 a.m. with former beauty queens or David Letterman or Rosie O’Donnell or basically anyone who has ever said anything bad about him. He has no self control (which is probably one of the reasons he is always cheating on his wife and trying to have sex with married women), he has no capacity for empathy, he is a pathological liar (I MEAN SERIOUSLY! JUST LOOK AT THE FACT CHECK SITES, THIS IS NOT FUCKING COMPLICATED! IT IS LITERALLY A GOOGLE SEARCH AWAY FROM YOU!!!!!!), he is a deplorable racist, he is a xenophobia-spreading cancer on this nation! But it was that fact that he talked about pussy that was just too much for y’all to bear? Seriously?

And the way that most of the Republicans who came out to denounce Donald Trump or remove their support of him was just as cringe-worthy as having supported him in the first place. All the cable news channels just showed wave after wave or white guys talking about how Trump’s comments disgusted them because they have daughters and/or sisters or mothers or wives or females dogs as pets or what the fuck ever. So basically, you’re saying that if you didn’t have females close to you then you’d be just fine with ol’ Pussy Grabber Trump prattling on to a giggling Billy Bush (and we are DEFINITELY going to talk about that scumbag) about how he uses his fame to justify assaulting women? It’s only the fact that you have daughters that makes you capable of understanding why his statements were deplorable and wrong? Otherwise you would have no understanding of why the things that Trump said were so damaging? Well….that’s just fucking great!

Your saying that you found Trump’s comments upsetting because you have daughters is nearly exactly the same as Trump saying that Hillary is unqualified to run this country because of the things her husband has done! Both statements are steeped in some seriously deep-seated sexism but really one thing should not have anything to do with the other! The things that Trump said on that tape should be condemned because they patently sexist and, even worse, were advocating sexual assault and if you could not come to that conclusion without first thinking about whether or not someone might speak that way about your daughter or your wife then you, my friend, are right up there with the Donald himself! And this seems like the perfect time to remind you of a point I made WAY back up at the top of the page; women are not pissed about Donald Trump talking lewdly, we are pissed about his admission that he has kissed women without their consent, that he would grope a woman without consent and would expect no consequences because he is famous!!!!

It’s not the words he used, it’s what those words said! Do I wish I could go back in time and never have to hear Donald Trump say the word “pussy”? You’re Goddamn right I do! That shit is gonna haunt my nightmares for at least another month at which point all of my frustration and exhaustion over all this sexist bullshit will be completely washed away by the elation of having our first female President of the United States of America…even if it is Hillary Clinton. Just like how racism doesn’t exist anymore because we had a black President!!!!

Wouldn’t that be awesome if that’s how things worked in real life though?

XOXO!!! Thanks for hanging and reading!

P.S. I said I was going to talk about that tittering piece of human garbage, Billy Bush, so here is it: Billy Bush is a vile little troll who single-handedly grossed out millions of women by acting as Donald Trump’s hug pimp and referring to himself as “the Bushy”. That alone should be an offense punishable by firing squad or being made into some kind of human piñata and then being continually beaten with a baseball bat until his intestines fall out his asshole. He is a shriveled, repugnant, jizz-stained, hair-sprayed, malodorous sack of fetid human waste who is absolutely the worst version of himself and I don’t even think that Oprah could help now. That is all.

P.P.S. Also, how great was it when actual professional athletes came out and started criticizing Trump for his use of the phrase “locker room talk” citing that sexually assaulting women was definitely NOT something that was discussed in actual locker rooms?!?!  Super Great! That’s how!

P.P.P.S. Also THIS!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had a Pinterest Wedding….

….and I totally survived. And kind of pulled it off!

Okay, first of all watch this…because I have writer’s block or more appropriately I have writer’s boulder. A boulder that is comprised of mtihril and adamantium. And this video, from those geniuses, Kristen and Jen at imomsohard, kind of takes up a little bit of space on the page and is a fairly accurate representation of my love-hate relationship with Pinterest.

This was supposed to be an embedded video but Facebook is busy eating a bunch of dicks and making my life difficult. In any case if you click on this link, you’ll get to where you need to go…just don’t forget to come back. XOXO

If you have been hanging around here for a while you may beware of the views that I have expressed in the past regarding Pinterest. They have been…unkind. Call me crazy (because why not? I pretty much am) but I don’t think you need to spend $800.00 on craft supplies and 72 man hours of labor to throw your 2 year-old a birthday party…THAT THEY WON’T EVEN REMEMBER! Are you really gonna go through those pictures with your child when they’re in their twenties and explain to them that you loved them so much that you spent three weeks, sleeping only 4 hours each night so that they could have a handmade, hand-dyed, locally sourced, free-range, artisanal unicorn pinata filled with homemade, certified organic, cruelty-free chocolate candies, individually wrapped in compostable rice paper of which you had to make 17 batches before you got the recipe to mold properly? Because if you are going to do that chances are your now twenty-three year-old child probably stopped talking to you 5 years ago and has already moved far, far away from you and may god have mercy on your soul.

But why Pinterest is awful is not why I’m here today, shockingly enough. I wanted to talk about why it’s kind of awesome and sometimes even a lifesaver! Last year, when my now Husband proposed, like many brides-to-be the first thing I did was make a Pinterest board, titled “Holy Crap! I’m Getting Married!!!” so that I might try to keep track of and catalog all the things about which people expected me to have an opinion. And I was expected to have an opinion about EVERYTHING including shit that I had no idea even existed or least of all mattered! People wanted to know dates, colors, theme and I’m like “theme?” I thought the theme of wedding was that it was a fucking wedding! It pretty much comes with its own built-in theme!

But no, people have Disney weddings and 1940s weddings, and superhero weddings and Dr. Who weddings and Star Wars weddings and Pokemon weddings (yes, two people who loved Pokemon enough to have a Pokemon themed wedding have actually found one another and are old enough to legally marry one another without thinking that it’s icky…that has happened, just ask the internet) and Legend of Zelda weddings, Steampunk weddings, Harry Potter weddings, even Walking Dead weddings. These are all things that adults choose to do with their life. I’m not saying I am too cool for fandoms, and little bits and pieces of our own fandoms did make cameo appearances at our wedding, but we chose to just stick with “wedding” as the general theme for the our wedding. And I am pretty sure we saved a ton of money by not having a Star Wars/Avengers/Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Indiana Jones themed wedding cake specially commissioned for the occasion.

As a matter of fact, thanks to Pinterest, we did not have a wedding cake at all, we had wedding Cannoli! And it was excellent, inexpensive and actually got eaten unlike most wedding cakes which are obscenely expensive and crafted largely to look good and don’t really taste that great. And that sort of sums up my feeling about wedding planning in general; I’m not about to do something just because that’s the way it’s always been done. I’m going to do something because it’s cheap, easy and seemingly practical because I am incredibly lazy and incredibly poor.

That being said I also found Pinterest very helpful because I did not have to remember anything or explain things to people. People would start asking me things like what I was going to do with my hair and usually my words would start to fail me, mostly due to the insanity creeping up on me because I was getting married in a matter of weeks but sometimes, admittedly, due to the fact that my mouth was full of Lucky Charms, and instead of having to respond to them with a coherent description using not-made-up vocabulary like a normal adult would have, I was able to just pull a picture up on my phone and shove it in their face. It worked like a motherfucking charm! And seriously, how does my spell check not have “motherfucking” in its dictionary by now? I swear to actual god!

I never thought I’d actually say this but, in this case, Pinterest was kind of a life saver. It was there when I needed cheap or free decorating ideas, inspiration for what to do with all those damn mason jars and white Christmas lights my Mom kept buying, and there when I needed to figure out what to do with my unimpressive hair whence it was given over to an actual professional stylist (who, by the way, worked miracles, that’s Christine at 1630 Hair Artisans in Renton and I am not just giving her a plug because she stood up with me, I’m doing it because she did an amazing job on my hair and my makeup and she deserves it, also she’s super nice, like a My Little Pony, but not Rainbow Dash…Christine is like Fluttershy). Because I had Pinterest to catalogue my thoughts, my thoughts seemed less like incoherent nonsense and just a little bit more like coherent sense which is what I need everyday….obviously you knew that if you made it this far into this post.

Someone should totally invent an app that makes me less crazy and totally capable of doing things like waking up to my first alarm , keeping the bathroom clean and the sink empty of dishes, folding the laundry, and not drinking too many margaritas and gorging myself on empanadas. I want my best people on this shit, right away!

This post was supposed to have a bunch of side-by-side photographic examples of all the Pinterest-y (I could literally not bring myself to use the word “Pinteresting”) ideas that were actually employed at my wedding but, let’s be honest, that’s something you might expect from someone who has a modicum of their shit together. And we all know, that ain’t me. Love you guys! Thanks for hanging out and wasting some time with me! XOXO

And just for shits and giggles, here are a couple pics from the wedding:

I am not sure how Josh ended up wearing two different hats and just so we’re clear, no one got around to taking a picture of the cannoli before it started to get eaten so in that picture it is in a state of actively being devoured. It was fucking delicious!

P.S. Also, I would like to formally request that people who have never played Scrabble in their life stop making cutesy wedding crafts out of Scrabble tiles, it’s insulting to the real nerds, it’s nerd-cultural appropriation and it needs to stop, thank you.

 

The Power of Positive Drinking*

*Originally Published as “I am an Achiever” which was a thinly veiled Big Lebowski reference

ACTUALLY I wrote this over a ago and it was first published on May 17th, 2015. I did, however, add some things to the list so there are a few new/updated bits! Enjoy!

I wrote this a few weeks ago and read it at the live reading we did at the beginning of the month, but even if you came to the reading there are some extra goodies at the end of the post. Thanks for reading and I love you guys!!!

I took my son to the park the other day and, granted it was a mild Sunday afternoon of which we do not get many in April in the great Pacific Northwest, I saw 5 pregnant women there…5!!! Oh wait, it gets even more interesting from a sociological and anthropological stand-point (said no one ever…except for maybe Oliver Sacks)! Of all the pregnant women every single one was there with their already existing child/children. And of all of the families at the park that day the pregnant moms were making up nearly half of the moms! Now, I am fully aware that it is rutting season and we are coming out of winter wherein the humans hunker down and procreate, mainly to stay warm and have an excuse to shave, but this just seemed excessive to me. As I watched the the gravid parade of moms waddling slowly from one end of the playground to the other chasing after their rapidly swelling broods, I realized that two of the five already had four children to their names!!!! That means each of those two women were currently gestating a fifth child!!!!

I can’t be the only one who becomes immediately suspicious of anyone who voluntarily has, just an unreasonable shit ton of kids, right (I say voluntarily because I am just assuming that since I saw these ladies at the park neither of them has been chained up in a basement being forcibly and repeatedly impregnated by their captors, but stranger things have happened, GO CLEVELAND)? I mean there are only a few reasons why anyone has that many kids; 1) to repopulate the planet with ready-made, home-schooled evangelical cult members 2) their religious beliefs prohibit the use of birth control (see also reason 1) and 3) sheer stupidity (see also reasons 1 and 2). All this reproduction just seemed excessive to me. I mean these ladies were clearly trying to compensate for something because they were totally overachieving in the baby-making department; they were reproductive overachievers!!!

In the face of all this extravagantly superfluous and even a little show-offy propagation of the human species I started to feel a little bit like a reproductive underachiever with my one measly kid. I will allow that I do have a pretty top notch baby (yes, I realize that he is four and no longer a baby but he will ALWAYS be my baby so shut up about it, okay!), with whom I am desperately in love. But every now and then, as I imagine all mothers do, I get sort of nostalgic for the days when he was a tiny little thing who smelled amazing and never ran away from me in the parking lot of Target. Then I quickly remember what it was like breastfeeding or staying up all night or cleaning feces off his neck and I am quickly ripped out of the land of newborn nostalgia and firmly back on earth where the worst of our problems consist of the DVR always missing the last two minutes of “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” no matter how many times I try to record it from Sprout.

Besides I may be a reproductive underachiever but there are plenty of things at which I totally overachieve! Here is a bulleted list of those things in no particular order:

  • examining my pores in the mirror for hours at a time (okay, half hours at a time, but still)
  • anxiety
  • turning anxiety into chin acne
  • binge watching “Daredevil” on Neflix (and can I just say I’m on episode 10 already and he still doesn’t have a goddamn costume! WTF)
  • oral (full stop) hygiene
  • finding spare change in the car seats while waiting in line at the drive-through for a Blizzard
  • eating an entire pound of grapes in one sitting
  • WINE!
  • sleeping in until 10 o’clock
  • eyeliner
  • plucking my chin hairs
  • angrily screaming “SUCK MY DICK!” at street harassers
  • makeup in general
  • thrift store shopping
  • cussing people out while driving
  • Simpson’s trivia
  • being continually blown away by the size of my son’s poop
  • Boggle
  • neuroses
  • remembering all the names of the characters from the “Transformers” cartoons
  • “Big Lebowski” quotes
  • moping
  • always having a corkscrew
  • laughing at my own jokes
  • stick shift (also not a dirty metaphor)
  • getting kicked in the tits while trying to put shoes on a shrieking four year old
  • scalloped potatoes (I seriously make awesome scalloped potatoes)
  • sarcasm
  • inevitably being that person in the crowded bar who is saying something embarrassing or wildly inappropriate when the music suddenly dies down
  • forgetting to put tampons in my purse
  • scheme hatchery
  • “forgetting” to pay for the items I put on the bottom of the cart (and this is just a karmic reach-around to which I am not looking forward)
  • whiskey
  • insomnia
  • always picking the line at the grocery store that will take the longest no matter how few people are in front of you.
  • reciting the plots of all the episodes of “Ultimate Spiderman” when called upon to explain what the fuck my son is talking about and why he is trying to lock you into some sort of mental combat wherein he is the “Grandmaster” and you are the “Collector” and you each have to pick a team of heroes or villains to battle for the fate of New York City,  and how you should ALWAYS pick Kraven the Hunter because Kraven the Hunter is tits, but I mean, c’mon people, this is day one shit.

I could go on, but I don’t want to toot my own horn. But you see, there are plenty of things I do well, in addition to making fabulous, if not a little free with the nudity, babies! These are the things I have to tell myself in order to sleep at night when wading through the long list of all my inadequacies…also, whiskey helps a lot with that too.

P.S. Yes, I am perfectly aware that there are people with tons of kids who are NOT actually religious fanatics….as I had to point out to a friend of mine who busted my balls the first time this was published. But if I never blew anything out of proportion, never made broad, sweeping generalizations, and avoided hyperbole and sarcasm at all times, this probably wouldn’t be a very fun blog to read, now would it? So you can refrain from emailing me to tell me about all the perfectly normal atheists you know who just happen to have 7 kids because I already know that this is a thing that happens in real life, thank you. XOXO

How I Didn’t Die at the Pool! Go Me!!!

I have been meaning to relink/republish some older posts that were deleted in the website reboot. I figure since I am too damn busy getting ready to get married in two weeks to actually write anything, now is the perfect time to repost some old shit that I have already written and pass it off as new…or not, since the jig is clearly up. Why can I not just keep my fat mouth shut? Anyhow, this was originally published on April, 6th 2015. I hope you enjoy it!

So it was a fairly normal Tuesday when I suddenly found myself childless and in my mother’s car on the way to the aquatic center to participate in something called River Run Boot camp. And that should have been the first red flag right there. As a chubby person whose laziness is depthless I should really know better than to willingly participate in anything labeled as a “boot camp” but I was so intoxicated by the idea of two whole childless hours that you probably could have gotten me to go along with anything at that point. You could be like, “Hey, Dacia! You wanna come with me to a  Hitler youth rally and then have our toenails pulled out and our feet dipped in lemon juice?” and I’d be like, “I don’t…..” and then you’d be all, “Someone will watch Bo for a couple hours so we can go.” At which point I would already be sitting in the car waiting for you and only wondering a little bit how, exactly, our toenails will be removed.

And that is how I came to be in the women’s locker room at the Snohomish Aquatic Center (or SAC if you’re into brevity and funny acronyms) stripping down in front a six-year-old autistic girl who was hiding in the corner to be away from the noise of the cacophonous hand dryers and her mother. I learned a long time ago that there is no point in being bashful in these situations and that if anyone didn’t want to see something they could just look away so I took to removing my clothing with casual efficiency. Then the mother started up a conversation and to my surprise I was not put off at all by making small talk with a complete stranger while removing my panties. “Is it spring break?” she asked me. “I have no idea.” I said. At which point I realized that Easter is this weekend and it probably is spring break…somewhere. I added quickly that my “little one” has spring break next week at which point I noticed a look of abject horror cross the older woman’s face. “He’s just in preschool, though.” I added with a nervous chuckle. This did nothing to temper her appalled expression. At which point I realized that she was asking me about spring break because she assumed I was either in high school or possibly college. There was some additional banter and then she and her daughter were off. I sort of wanted to yell after her, “I’m not a teenage mother! I had him when I was 30!” but I was admittedly pretty flattered at being mistaken for a teenager….especially while topless.

I am white girl. I know this seems pretty obvious but I am not just white, I am like a 10th degree Caucasian and whenever I have occasion to wear a bathing suit in public this fact does not go unnoticed. Inevitably I will catch someone staring at me like they are not sure if I am real or just an apparition at which point they have to look around at all the other people to see if they notice me too. Most people give up staring at me once they realize they are not hallucinating. I was relaying this fact to my mother as we entered the Jacuzzi. She laughed and then pointed out another pale girl across the pool and said, “I dunno, she’s pretty white.” I agreed as we both studied the young lady and she continued, “It is a different kind of white though, she’s less….”
“Transparent.” I offered. “YES!” she agreed excitedly, as I had intuited the exact word for which she was searching, and added something about her whiteness being “creamier” and “more opaque”. Now pay attention kids, my terrifying pallor will be a topic of conversation again.

My mom and I get out of the Jacuzzi and into the river run area which is basically a slow moving current going around in a figure 8, or at least the current seems slow, until you try to go against it, then it seems kind of like trying to wade through Nutella while wearing a lead jumpsuit. Needless to say, about 4 minutes and 38 seconds into the actual boot camp, my doughy ass is sweating like a whore in church and this is really an odd sensation. One is very rarely, if ever, aware of their sweat while actually submerged in water. I see that every time I pass the instructor whilst going through the figure 8 she looks at me with what appears to be barely concealed alarm and I know this is because I probably look like a beefsteak tomato that someone has put in the microwave. Which brings us back to my whiteness. As a 10th degree Caucasian who is nearly transparent, when I am experiencing exertion I get red; my chest, my cheeks, my forehead all turn crimson, same thing happens when I cry…which is really why I should try to do that in public less. About the third time I pass the instructor and notice the same look of concern on her face I almost scream “I am totally not having a stroke! I am just Norwegian!” Instead I just try to smile and look like I am having fun, which I actually am, but I think my attempt at conveying “I am totally having a good time and you should not worry” appeared more like “I am a sociopath that has no idea how to properly express human emotions…and also I might be pooping right now”.

In a shocking turn of events, I managed to last the whole hour of boot camp without dropping dead, much to the visible relief of our instructor. And after a brief post-boot-camp soak in the Jacuzzi it was back to the locker room, where upon catching a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror on the way to the showers, I had to admit to that I really could not blame the instructor for thinking I was going to die because I was, really, really red. But none of this is the best part!!! The best part is that while showering and getting ready to leave I found a kickass pair of Jack Skellington hairpins abandoned in the shower soap dish!!! Score!!!

Totally fucking worth nearly getting mistakenly carted away from the pool on a stretcher!

And, yes, I am fully aware that I should have turned the hairpins into the lost and found at the front desk but I feel as though it is a pretty well established fact that I am an asshole…so I didn’t do that.

Goodbye for now my dearies!

“Wait, I’m Confused…”

or the accidental mantra of young women in the workplace

I don’t make it a secret that the job that I have now is the first “real job” I have ever had. Before now I had never worked in an office before and there are some things I have noticed that are….different. I work in a creative profession and in an office that is largely made up of women, albeit women who are, for the most part, quite a bit younger than I am. And I have to say, I am beginning to notice something. One phrase in particular that these young ladies are very comfortable with, a phrase that, when I hear it, grates on my nerves: “Wait…I’m confused?” You will notice that phrase has a question mark at the end of it as it is typically delivered as such, rising up, in tone at the end to drive home the point of the deliverer’s confusion.

These are smart, professional, capable young women. Why do they DO THIS? Is it a hold-over from their college days when the only way to get their sexist, male professors to pay attention to them was to play at being the overwhelmed ingenue? If so, it’s time to drop the act…if for no other reason than it is making my physically ill! Also, can we all just agree that the imagined scenario I just presented is an actual thing that happens every day in this country in the twenty-first goddamn century and if we are not all working toward a better tomorrow for young women we should probably just be taken out back behind the chemical sheds and shot? Good! Great! Grand! Wonderful! NO YELLING ON THE BUS!!!!

I’ll allow that in our particular line of work we are often presented with a lot of information, sometimes from various sources with varying ideas about what the end results should be and it can be….confusing. But here’s what I propose. Instead of standing around throwing our tiny woman hands up and declaring how utterly baffled we are, how about we demand clarification, in no uncertain terms. When someone sends me a folder full of what vaguely resembles a pile of loose dog shit and expects me to make magic out of it they will undoubtedly be hearing from me in a matter of minutes. I will demand that they (whomever THEY might be) do a better job of explaining their needs and their requirements. What I will not do is passively declare that I am “confused” and then wait for someone else to ask the hard questions.

I believe that being able to admit or speak aloud when you don’t understand something is an incredibly valuable way to learn but the thing about the “Wait…I’m confused” that I hear so often is that it is presented without follow-up questions. It is presented as a passive bowing out and not an active attempt to gain a more information and a more firm grasp of the situation. Ladies, I beg you to use your confusion to gain more knowledge! Don’t let it stop you in your tracks! Plow forward and let your ignorance lead you to enlightenment. If you are not finishing that thought then you are going to be just as confused the next time you are presented with the same situation. And wouldn’t you rather not be confused? Wouldn’t you rather be the go-to gal? The person who everyone else can count on to know your shit and do your job? I know I would.

I’m not really asking a lot. I am just asking that when we are presented with a confusing situation we should use that moment to learn, the gain the skills and knowledge so that we encounter fewer confusing moments in the future. That’s all. Just ask questions.

The other day two girls in my office, both of whom, while much younger than I, collectively have been doing this job professionally for significantly longer than I have, were hemming and hawing over a problem, just on the other side of my cube fortress, that had both of them declaring their confusing; Girl #1 “I don’t know, I’m confused…” she trailed off. Girl #2 “So confusing…..”. Finally I could not take it anymore. I thought briefly about whether or not I had ever heard one of the men in our office say these words and when I was absolutely positive that, not only, had that never EVER happened, it probably never would happen! I got up, poked my head over the fortress wall and said, “What’s up ladies?”

They presented me with their quandary, for which I had already come up with a solution because I had been sitting there eavesdropping for the last three minutes because I am an asshole and a busybody. I provided them the solution and then suggested that if that happens again they should immediately address it with the (name the person above the person who was handling that project because talking to people’s bosses usually gets their attention…and their head out of their ass). They agreed with me about the course of action which they totally both could have come up with on their own, and might have but for their default confusion mode.

I guess what I am trying to say is that there is no need to be confused…not for longer than 20 seconds or so. Just ask questions, acquire information, gain knowledge, kick ass, grow, learn, kick more ass, become a samurai, kick even more ass still and basically rule the goddamn world!!! Because there is absolutely no reason that you can’t!!!! XOXO

“They Don’t Call it Hero-lose”

A while ago Saturday Night Live aired a sketch about the growing heroin problem in America. The trouble was America was not laughing. Heroin use, abuse, and deaths have been steadily on the rise for the last 15 years and increasing at an alarming rate since 2010*. The politicians are calling it an epidemic. The headlines are calling it an epidemic. It kind of seems like heroin is everywhere. But it’s not….not really, is it? As close to home as this has reached for so many Americans to many other Americans it still feels like “someone else’s problem”; someone who’s poor, or not white, or not living in “my neighborhood”, or someone who’s a criminal or a street person.

But here’s the thing; heroin is a suburban problem. It’s an urban problem. It’s a rural problem. It’s an everywhere and everyone problem. In a report released last July the CDC found that “significant increases in heroin use were found in groups with historically low rates of heroin use, including women and people with private insurance and higher incomes. The gaps between men and women, low and higher incomes, and people with Medicaid and private insurance have narrowed in the past decade.” The fact is that 90% (yes 90%) of first time heroin users are white. Many are middle class or “wealthy” and 75% of new users have had previous addiction issues with prescription painkillers.

But that’s just where the story starts this time around. The fact is that heroin has been in my life for over a dozen years. I have seen what it can do and what it does to people first hand at an uncomfortably close range. And I use that phrase with great intention. Talking about this makes people wildly uncomfortable. Most of the people who are outside that small circle of folks in my life who know exactly how devastating heroin addiction can be, just kind of cannot believe that someone, in real life, in their life, knows anything about heroin addiction. It’s like people don’t believe it’s real. That it’s something that only happens in the movies. But it happens in real life.

I have heretofore refrained from talking much about Bo’s dad because I have tried to be respectful of his privacy. His story never felt like it was mine to tell. But it is also my story.

I was 24. It was December. It was always December. I knew something was wrong with Zach. I just didn’t know what. I would, in time, grow very familiar with all the signs and symptoms of his drug abuse. At some point all the relapses blur together. Other moments, the really bad ones, stick out. It wasn’t until 2 months later, when he was fired from the restaurant at which we both worked for leaving a needle in the manager’s office that I knew something else had to be done. He was using heroin…again. I had caught him, eventually, back in December. He tearfully admitted it, said it wasn’t that bad, that he didn’t need to go to rehab or anything and that he could take care of it on his own. I trusted that he was being truthful because I didn’t know any better.

After he got fired in February even he had to admit that the problem was more serious than he had been letting on. He agreed to get clean. His best friend and former girlfriend, Sagan, who had been through this with him many times before, offered her help. She was not working at the time and offered to be the babysitter for the better part of the ordeal. When I was at work someone had to watch him while he was going through the difficult and painful process of detoxing.

We gathered his things and went over to Sagan’s apartment where we would be staying for about a week. At that time, in Seattle, there was a doctor on Beacon Hill called Dr. Si whose specialty was helping ease heroin users through the detox process with a combination of several non-narcotic prescription drugs. A lot of muscle relaxers, sleep aids, anti-nausea and anti-anxiety medications, taken all at once so that the patient is basically an anthropomorphous blob of relaxed, sleeping, human skin who occasionally wakes up to pee and drink gatorade. Through this detox process the patient does not experience as much or as intensely the classic symptoms of detoxification such as vomiting, diarrhea, uncontrollable shaking, sweating, cramping, anxiety, or excessive screaming if you are junkie being played by Leonardo Dicaprio.

Sagan and I had to go fill his prescriptions and gather the necessary supplies (e.g. gatorade, consume, saltines etc). Before we left him in her apartment alone, we took the phone (kids, this is when people still had land lines) which was not a cordless so we just unplugged the receiver from the phone and took it with us, along with his wallet, his keys, his pants and his shoes. We figured those measures would at least be a deterrent; if he wanted heroin he would literally have to run down the street with bare feet in his underpants begging for money in order to get it. We thought we were so clever.

The rest of the week was, for me, going back and forth from my apartment to feed our new kitten, to work and then to Sagan’s apartment. At work, everyone knew why he’d been fired. No one even asked me if I was okay, or what I was going to do about it. It’s like they just assumed that I was going to dump him because of his drug use. Truth is, I don’t know what I would have told them had they asked. I was just doing the one thing that made sense to me; helping my friend, whom I loved, with his problem. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew that he would still be in it with me.

The trouble with being a junkie is that even when you’re not on heroin you’re probably on something else. Maybe it’s alcohol or cocaine or the program or yoga or guilt or self loathing or whatever it is, the hole that heroin left inside of you is going to get filled with something. He always filled it with alcohol, guilt, depression and hatred.

I cannot remember how long it was until the next relapse. He got his job back after some time. And then lost it again after refusing to take a drug test that he knew he would not pass. He said it was too hard to stay clean working downtown, right next to the blade. The drugs were unavoidable. And every time he started using again and started lying to me about it a little bit more of my confidence would erode, not just in him, but in myself. Finding out about it each time was like finding out I was being cheated on and effectively I was; his mistress was heroin. It would always be.

There was the time I found the make-up he had hidden; foundation that he used to cover up his bruises and track marks. When I confronted him with it he said it was old, from the last time he relapsed and he had just forgotten about it. I told him I did not believe him and that he’d have better luck with concealer than with foundation. He used that excuse all the time; “I haven’t been using I just forgot about (insert whatever piece of incriminating evidence I found) since the last time!”

After losing his job, again, and kicking heroin again, in the midst of his job search I encouraged him to take some time off. I worked two jobs and we could get by on that for a while. He took a year off work. He wrote and drank and cried for a year, but he did not use heroin. For that I was thankful. When he started to look for work again I was scared. I didn’t want to start the same thing all over again.

But it was okay. For a long while it was okay. He got back in touch with his son from his first marriage. Things were going well. Then some shit happened as shit tends to do. His longtime friend, who also struggled with heroin abuse, came back into town. That was hard. They would continually flip this coin wherein its landing on one side they would try to lift one another up but the other side of that coin was their dragging one another down. His friend, Ronnie, was about to have a baby with his girlfriend, who also used. Ronnie was trying really hard to get away from heroin but heroin is a mad goddamn dog and it does not stop coming after you. I watched over Ronnie as detoxed on an air mattress on our living room floor. I watched him as he writhed and cried and begged for drugs. I watched him get clean. I watched him relapse. I watched him get clean again and it all felt like a microcosm of what I was going through.

One morning, a watery grey dawn, I woke to find that I was the only one in bed, save for my cats. The dog, Ronnie’s dog actually, who had been living with us while Ronnie was homeless, was gone and so was Zach. I did not even have time to lean into the full froth of my panic when the door of the apartment rattled. It was Zach, dogless and bandaged about the neck and wearing a hospital bracelet and a shirt that did not belong to him.

He had waited until I went to sleep, took the dog out for a walk and while out, decided to stop on a side street and shoot up. The paramedics found him lying in some bushes near the sidewalk, a needle hanging out of his neck…with no dog. The depth of what happened, the overwhelming weight of the situation was completely overshadowed by the lack of the dog. Ratchet was not just a dog, he was Ronnie’s child, his partner of over a decade. That dog meant everything to him and he was missing.

I pulled on clothes. It had grown lighter out now, it was around 6:30 in the morning. We walked the whole neighborhood, looking and calling for Ratchet. I walked until my feet were sore and my throat was raw from calling Ratchet’s name. I cried. Out of despair for the loss of the dog, despair for the whole situation. I wanted to scream.

Ratchet, as it turned out, upon Zach’s passing out in the bushes, ran back to our apartment building where he dutifully stood outside, leash dangling on the ground and barked, and barked and barked, presumably in an effort to wake me, but to no avail. When he finally gave up on barking and returned to find Zach no longer where he had left him, Ratchet went to the local drugstore up the road which was open 24 hours. There he sought shelter and companionship for the rest of the evening. He was returned to us around 10 am. I was so exhausted from worry, hopelessness and relief that I collapsed into bed with Ratchet and my two cats and slept all day, until I had to go to work that night. I was simply trying to run away from the thought that there would be another detox, another “starting over”, another broken promise, more fighting, more anger, more exhaustion, more pain, more pain, more goddamn pain, more consuming and unfaltering and inescapable fucking pain. Pain….for poppies. Just poppies.

I was completely alone to deal with this, too. How could I expect anyone to understand what I was going through? I didn’t even understand it. I was just trying to survive it. I remember confiding in a friend, at the time, about what was happening with me, with him, with us. She seemed bewildered. She did not know what to say or do…so she just stopped talking to me. What I was going through was too much for her to handle. I wish I could say she was the only one. She was not. After a certain point I learned  my lesson and just didn’t talk about it anymore.

That was 2006. In 2010 our son was born. In the intervening years, after the last “getting clean” was all over, there were no more incidence of heroin use, at least none that I knew about.

It wasn’t Zach’s heroin abuse that (directly) lead to my ending the relationship after 11 years when our son was just 3 years old. It was a decade worth of things. A decade’s worth of my corrupted sense of self, a decade’s worth of alcoholism, a decade’s worth of mistrust, a decade’s worth of codependency. It was a death by a thousand cuts and I was quickly running out of unmarred skin. I felt like I couldn’t breathe under the weight of his hatred and judgement of me. After all HE had done it was ME who was never going to be good enough, never going to be able to repent enough for the past. He was always like that. He could never find the fault in himself but was a surgeon about finding it in others.

Of course I worried that the break-up would send him back into heroin’s sedative and tranquil embrace. But for a while he was okay. Then, at preschool orientation, he showed up high as fuck! He denied it when I confronted him about it because of course he did. I had no proof. I did not know what to do. I think that I secretly, and quite stupidly, thought that Bo would keep him on track. That the presence of this bright, coruscant, and breathlessly beautiful creature would somehow keep him out of the darkness.

One day, I went to pick Bo up for preschool at the apartment I had moved out of in favor of living in the back of my bookstore. At this point Zach and I were splitting the weeks with Bo. He was with me 4 days and 5 nights of the week and with Zach on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. This was one of the days that Bo had stayed with him and it was a work day for us parents at our Co-op preschool. I approached the door, opting to knock out of some sense of decorum despite my having a key. No answer. They should have been up and ready to go. I did not hear Bo inside. I did not knock again. I opened the door and it was quiet. Bo was still in bed. I looked at the couch and there was Zach, passed out with his sock rolled down and his foot and the needle still in his hands, his works spread out on the coffee table. I chocked on my own horror. I could not believe that he would do this…with our son asleep just feet away in his bedroom.

I did not scream. I woke him up. He tried to play it off like what I had just witnessed was, in fact, not at all what it looked like. I still did not scream. He scooped up his things from the coffee table, finally regaining his wits. I calmly assured him that I knew it was EXACTLY what it looked like. He tried to make more excuses. Then, finally, I screamed; “WHAT IF I HAD NOT FOUND YOU?!?!!! WHAT IF IT HAD BEEN HIM?!?!” I screamed, gesturing toward the hall down which my son’s bedroom lie. He started to cry. He was out of excuses and out of heroin and the reality of what he had done and what he had narrowly avoided began to hit him.

I told him that he would never see his son again unless he got help. I also told him that, this time, I could not be the one to give it to him. After all, I had a child to raise and a business to run. I woke Bo, gathered his things and we left. We did not go to school that day.

It took Zach a little while, and after exploring other programs, he got on methadone. I was not particularly pleased with this course of action. As far as I was concerned it was really no better than being on heroin. While it was not illegal, there was virtually no chance of overdose and it was free he was still going to “be on drugs” and quite dependent upon them too. And that is what eventually lead to his getting fired from yet another job. Even on methadone he could not hide the fact that he was a junkie. His decline was just too obvious, to me, to his employer and to everyone else around him. And of course, his losing his job meant his losing his home (when he realized he could no longer afford the apartment without my income, although he, ironically, always insisted that I did not contribute to the household financially as I was a business owner and did not “bring home a paycheck”, he was forced to take up at an “hotel” that rented rooms by the week).

After getting fired, just about a year after our split, he could not even maintain his room at the hotel and was forced to move out, seeking the succor and infinite patience of Sagan, once again. She was compliant with his presence in her home for as long and longer than anyone could expect. He had started using again, street drugs. It was too difficult to get to the methadone clinic each day, apparently, but not too difficult to steal money (or whatever could be sold in exchange for money) in order to buy heroin. It becomes really difficult for me to recall the timeline of events with much accuracy at this point. I had gotten a new job and in lieu of putting Bo in daycare, a step I was very reluctant to take as he had never been in any sort of childcare previously, Zach would take him during the day. At this point I thought he was still on methadone. He was, however, pretty much homeless, staying with friends when he could.

It was September when I was cleaning out my car, which I would leave for Zach and Bo to use while I was at work, that I found something under the diver’s seat. It was the small metal dish, the kind you get from the needle exchange, that is used to cook the heroin, an unfolded paper clip for stirring the drug while it cooks, the lot of which were charred and stained with the drug’s sticky, black residue. I was enraged but not surprised. I immediately made arrangements to put Bo into a school near my work. That Monday when it would usually be time to meet up with Zach before I went to work, Bo and I went to his new school/daycare. Bo was so excited to be in school, with other kids, it was like he didn’t even know he was supposed to be upset about my leaving him. The next day, however, was a different story. When it was time for me to leave him at school he cried and then I cried and I hated every decision I had ever made as a parent.

Zach actually had the fucking nerve to not only be indignant that I made the unilateral decision to put Bo into daycare and remove him from his care but he also fucking denied that what I found was his!!!! THE FUCK!!! Even if it were not his (which, DUH, it totally fucking was) the best case scenario is that he let one of his junkie friends use my car, drive my car, whilst on drugs and/ or use drugs in my car, and where was my son when all this was happening? Who the fuck knows? I could not let shit like this continue. I was pulling absolutely no punches this time after a fucking lifetime of giving him the benefit of the doubt, he was decidedly out of benefits.

It was November, the first time he was arrested. In between then and the first of the year he would be arrested and jailed more than 5 separate times. He would get released and then go right back to using and stealing to support his use. At his age it’s a damn miracle he hasn’t died from the physical stress of detoxing in jail. He was arrested for the last time in mid March. He’s been in jail ever since. It’s the best place for him. At least in jail there is a roof over his head and no heroin. We’ve spoken a few times. I still don’t think he realizes how much everyone around him hurts because of what he’s done. He’s never been good at looking at himself with a critical or even realistic eye.

He will get released soon. He sounds hopeful about his future. I want to be too, so that Bo might have his dad back someday. But I am not optimistic, for I’ve far too much sense and too much experience to have much room left for optimism.

That’s it for now. I realize the strokes, although measuring nearly 3,500 words, were indeed quite broad, this is all I have the mind to put to print at this point. There’s more, so much more, and maybe someday I will get around to writing it all down. For now…XOXO.

*what had been a steady increase in overdose rates, 6% a year, from 1999 to 2008 took a HUGE leap as overdose rates skyrocketed with a 37% increase in 2010.

P.S. As for the title, I have always said that if you cannot laugh about it, it WILL definitely kill you.

Here is your Owl, Now Please Oversee my Nuptials

As some of you may know (if you’re my mom perhaps) I am planning a wedding. It is a small wedding but a wedding nonetheless. Did I mention that it’s my wedding? It is. Someone has not only actually agreed to marry me but it was HIS idea. I mean, he totally asked and everything! Weird, right? In any case, he has found that my special brand of being annoying is the kind of annoying he wants to tolerate for the rest of forever so a wedding must be planned to celebrate our mutual tolerance of one another’s annoying-ness ….and the fact that we love each other….and to make my mother happy.

As a graphic designer (which I still think is kind of a silly thing to call myself…we should go with “as a person who likes to make pretty pictures and sometimes silly pictures of otters and barbarian teddy bears and extra fancy hamsters”) I was really excited about making the invitations. And I got them back last Thursday and I was super pleased. The next step was collecting everyone’s addresses.

I messaged my friend Jon to get his address and the conversation that we had about how OUT OF FUCKING HAND wedding invitations had gotten was kind of funny:

Me:
Need your address…for I plan to stalk you….or send you a wedding invitation. One of those.
Jon:
B) I thought you already got married. Life is gonna suck if I start having FB hallucinations.
A) was supposed to be “congratulations” but, thumbs.
Congratulations!
Me:
Thanks, no…I got engaged about a year ago. Marrying comes next.
Jon:
C?D?) [ADDRESS REDACTED]
Conformist.
Me:
I deserve that.
Jon:
Is there a date what to save?
Me:
June 25th, I chose not to send save the date cards and am just sending you an invitation. Because I did not need one MORE thing to do.
Jon:
Also, it is the goddam 21st century. You can use the internets.
People may call it lazy, I call it saving the fucking planet.
Me:
There are certain protocols that I (read my mother) will not see shirked.
Jon:
A friend got married a few years ago & there was a fucking sheaf of paper & also glossy photos involved. It hurt me so to have to recycle all that.
Understood.
Me:
Yeah, people’s invitations are totally out of control. They send them in boxes and shit! Some have live butterflies in them that fly out when you open the aforementioned box.
Frankly, I wouldn’t really want a box of mostly dead butterflies and their poop. 
Jon:
Oh! And ribbons!
Me:
SO MANY FUCKING RIBBONS!!!!
Jon:
You should tie ribbons on the necks of condors & ship them with every invite.
Do not forget to punch holes in the lids.
Me:
So you would go with condors? Because I had planned on doves but I see your point….
Jon:
Compromise= barn owls. The recipients can use them for pest control.
Me:
BRILLIANT!
Jon:
We have solved wedding invites!
Me:
And controlling pests!
Jon:
The world really should thank us by sending money.
Me:
I wouldn’t say “no” to a Nobel prize.
Jon:
You have my permission to blog about this. I will be your silent (read 50%) partner.
Me:
Noted.
Jon:
This was probably the most productive meeting I never attended.
Me:
You’re welcome!
I, on the other hand, opted out of all that craziness. There’s enough outlandish shit on which we are expected to spend money where weddings are concerned. I was not about to spring for the postage to send people an invitation that had to be housed in a goddamn box that plays music upon their opening it and also contains a legit, goddamn bird’s nest!
wedding invitation craziness

Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t like anyone enough to want to make them feel this important. 

My invitations were a very simple, 5 by 7, single-sided card with instructions to RSVP via email or phone call. I was determined NOT to have to pay more than 47 cents per envelope to send those bitches. Here’s a copy because I think they’re pretty!

invitation_redacted

I left out the address, because I know the types of folks who hang around here and I don’t want you miscreants crashing my wedding. Also, I try to avoid being embroiled in assassination plots whenever possible. And yes, I am JUST DELUSIONAL ENOUGH to consider my murder, which will probably be the result of the ill-timed use of sarcasm on my part, an assassination! I am not going to say that I have never wondered exactly how important one must be in order for their murder to be considered an assassination but I feel that I, somehow or another, pass the muster. Also, refer back to previous statements about my delusions.

I did, however, include the registry information, just in case anyone is feeling generous, or drunk or both of those things.

Also, in case you’re drunk, and/or had no idea just how out of fucking hand wedding invitations had gotten, here are some pics of some ridiculous shit! Enjoy!

IT IS A GODDAMN BOARD GAME!!!! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!!!

It’s a Viewmaster, and the little slide wheel has pictures of the happy couple! If you legitimately think anyone cares about you enough to think that you and your fiancee deserve this much fanfare your delusions of grandeur are like, Kanye epic.

are you fucking kidding me

What the shit is this? I bet this cost more than my wedding dress!

not sure whats going on here but it looks foreboding

Does anyone else think that including a tiny noose in your wedding invitation is just a little too dark…even if it is in cyrillic?

pastel-boxed-wedding-invitation-set__full

I am so done with making people work for the information you’ve included in your wedding invitation. If I have to use a key or a decoder ring or a map to figure out to what I have been invited, you can bet your ass that I will expend no further energy on your ridiculousness and will probably boycott your wedding on general principle.

awesome-3d-decoder-wedding-invitation__full

I forgot to include special glasses in the list of shit that I want no part of. Consider them added now.

rustic-wood-wedding-save-the-date-in-mossy-box__full

Go fuck yourself.

XOXO!!!!