Bloggedy, Blog, Blog, Blah

I didn’t set a New Year’s resolution. I didn’t set one because I’m capable of shaming myself much better than praising myself. If I set a resolution, and it falls apart in mid-March, then I fall apart in mid-March. And I have a hell of a time getting myself put back together. I’m like Humpty, ya dig? I’m really funny looking, but I things cooking (insert music notes). So sorry. Essentially I’m saving a lot of strife by not setting myself up to fail, which is what would inevitably happen. Because I know me. The other reason I didn’t feel called to set a resolution is because there wasn’t anything eating away at me to change. 2019, for all the ups and downs it gave me, was actually a pretty good year. And I see no reason for 2020 to be any different, which means I can still work on myself and all the things I was working on before, and hopefully just get better at this new routine.

But I did feel compelled to do some digging and look at portions of my life that could use a little more energy, and I came up with two areas: My weight, which you all know is a constant, life-long struggle of mine, and my writing, which I can say the same about. My weight has its own things to work out, and I am working on it. Always working on it. But my writing, well that is something that can wax and wane, and I had noticed there were very large waning spots over the last few years.

Let’s take this blog for instance. I started it back in 2016. Between 2016 and 2017 I made 20 posts. In 2018 I decided to try a bit harder and I wrote 250 posts! Whew, that escalated quickly. So my inclination was to say that I could write every day this year. Or maybe not everyday, but make at least 365 posts. Then I realized how crazy that sounded and I reeled it back, promising instead to just beat my year’s number. Then I realized I might be selling myself short. Orchestrating smallness. So I said, “No, no, Missy, stick to the plan. 365 posts.” Then I got a good night’s sleep and woke up in sweaty thoughts, “What the actual hell, Missy! You can’t write every, single, day. That’s madness.” Then I wrote every, single day for the first two weeks of the year and now I’m back to maybe I could do 365. Do you see why I never get anything accomplished?

Here is my point, in as much as I have one, commitment is cool or whatever. Setting a resolution to do something is nice, but commitment without intent isn’t going to get me very far. I can be totally committed to writing on this here bloggedy, blog, blog, but if I don’t actually intend to do it, set aside time each day, think up wonderful things to write about, spend some time actually thinking about things, then actually writing them down, I will sputter out. Blah, blah, blah.

You get me? I think you do. Maybe in a very abstract, very “I’m hangin on by a thread here, Missy” way, but you get me. And that’s what I love about you.

Go forth and dismantle resolutions. Or create them. Or accomplish them. Or whatever makes you work, and be happy, and creative. I support you any which way.

M.

Tuesdays

Tuesdays kind of suck. Tuesdays are like that girl you knew in college. Her name was Amber. She had large, robust breasts. The kind you’d catch yourself staring at, wondering why yours weren’t that nice, and also wondering how soft they were. She was always a bit high, but she didn’t work. Her parents paid for her apartment, and she made her weed money by selling plasma on the weekends. Sometimes she’d show up at the same party as you, and she’d saunter over, a little drunk on flavored vodka, a Marlboro Light hanging from her mouth, Ani DiFranco on the CD player, and she’d ask your name, even though you two had known each other since 6th grade. You’d just look down at her vast cleavage, wonder what it felt like inside that space, and say, “You know me, dude.” And she’d be all, “Really?! OMIGOD!”

Tuesdays are annoying. They make me think about all the shit I didn’t get done on Monday, that I was planning on getting done on Sunday, because I knew it actually needed to get done on Saturday, because I thought to get it done on Friday, but who gets shit done on Friday? Amber. She sells plasma on Fridays.

It rains on Tuesdays. Maybe not every Tuesday, but when it’s raining it always feels like a Tuesday.

Tuesdays suck the creativity out of me. They block me from the motivation that it takes to take that first step. Write that first line. Knit that first stitch.

But every so often a Tuesday will surprise me. Yesterday I had a nice, long chat over coffee with a new friend. I thought, “Well Tuesday, what have we done here? This was lovely.” But as I was leaving the coffee shop it started to rain. I was carefully walking back to my car when I suddenly remembered touching Amber’s breasts, in a friend’s apartment, the smell of vanilla vodka on our lips. It wasn’t a Tuesday. Couldn’t have been. Her breasts were soft, her skin warm.

Then I stepped into a puddle.

I see what you did there Tuesday. I won’t fall for it again.

M.

Is This Really 5th Grade?

Jackson has been carrying a notecard in his back pocket all week with his phone number written on it. It’s for a girl. Her name is Molly and she’s in his class. She got a phone for Christmas and he overheard her giving her number out to a boy on the playground. Landon. Oh, Landon. You know Landon. He’s loud and obnoxious. He carries on with nonsense like untied shoelaces and poking dead animals with sticks. Jackson is not impressed. But Molly, he suspects, has fallen under Landon’s grip. Molly and Landon, he’s heard around the playground, are a couple. So although Jackson is in Molly’s classroom cluster, and a teammate on his robotics team, and a girl he would consider a “friend” first and foremost, he’s afraid to give his phone number to her because he doesn’t want to “rock” the proverbial pre-teen dating boat. Is this really fifth grade?

On Monday he wanted to ask her for her number, since she appeared to be readily passing it out. And he was prepared to, until he wasn’t. Until his nerves got the better of him. Until he heard the “girl drama” on the playground. Saw Landon doing high-kicks over the seat of the swing. He let himself get intimated. All worked up.

On Tuesday it was decided he would suggest that he give Molly his number, that way if she ever wanted to text, or link up to play Minecraft online, she had it in her phone. But when the time came, he backed away slowly from her desk, saying something about a dropped pencil. Le sigh.

On Wednesday he met me nervously at the front door of the school and flashed me digits on the notecard. I smiled and asked if he worked up the nerve to ask Molly for her number. No, he mumbled, racing me to the sidewalk, that was his number he wrote down to pass it to her, but he had chickened out again. Close, but no cigar.

By Thursday he had devised a plan. Molly is in charge of the morning announcements. So while she was in the office each morning, he had about five precious minutes to slide his notecard onto her desk. He added a diagonal arrow to the nameless notecard, to indicate that it was from him. He sits diagonally from her. Smooth.

On Thursday afternoon he came bounding out of the building and ran at me while I was talking to a friend. She’s the mom of another girl in Jackson’s class, so he stopped just short of us. We both turned and looked at him and he said, “Hi. Mommy I need to talk to you.” We excused ourselves and started down the sidewalk when he said, “Operation Molly was a success.” I told him congrats and asked what happened.

Turns out he was too scared to give it to her face to face, so he waited until the walkers had been called to line up upstairs. She happened to be away from her desk getting her book bag, so he placed a folded up note on her desk as he walked by. The note said, “Hey, it’s Jackson G. I heard you got a phone for Christmas, and I wanted to give you my number in case you ever want to text or anything.” As he walked out the door he looked back to make sure she had the note, and she was reading it, so he ran upstairs.

And just like that, girls are a thing now.

Great.

M.

Randy's Back, Back Again

Y’all know Randy, right? Oh, sure you do. He’s my neighbor. The backyard kind. The kind I share a fence with. Okay, if you don’t know Randy there are some things to tell you, like I’m not sure his name is Randy. I don’t actually know what his name is, I have never Wilson-ed him from my backyard, mainly because it’s a privacy fence, and also because Randy always has a leaf blower and a set of headphones on. Also because who does that? I mean really. The other thing to know about Randy is that he’s a little creepy.

For instance, the first time I encountered Randy he was standing in his backyard looking up at a tree. He stood there for a very, very long time. So long that I got uncomfortable watching him. Like, who’s-the-creeper-now kinda thing, right? Still, I kept watch, wondering what was so interesting in that tree. I was just getting out of the shower when I first saw him from my bathroom window. I was naked, going on with my just-got-out-of-the-shower stuff, when I spotted him. The only things I could come up with was that he had a rough day at the office, his shoes were too tight, he’d stepped on a Lego, or maybe, just maybe he was an ornithologist. Either way, I shook my head and went on about my day.

The next day when I stepped out of the shower he was there again. Same stance. Same tree. No birds, from my view anyway. Weird. I asked Jerimiah if he had met, or talked to, or even caught a glimpse of Randy in his natural habitat. He said he had not. I made him run upstairs to see him standing there in his backyard, but he was gone. Weird.

The next day, you guessed it. Randy’s back at shower time, watching the empty tree. Hmm.

Next day. Same. Same. Sensing a pattern here? I was. Jerimiah meanwhile, never saw Randy. Not once. He was starting to think I had imagined Randy, which if I’m being honest isn’t too far off. I was starting to wonder myself, until that one day when Jerimiah and I hopped in the shower together and bOoM! Randy was standing there, looking at the tree. Remember when I said creepy?

So what is Randy’s deal? Listen, I don’t know. But I did go buy curtains for our bathroom window. I even walked out into our backyard when Jerimiah was in the shower to see if Randy could see anything through the glass, and honestly there is a glare. But, and here is the big but, as soon as the summer came Randy disappeared. No more trips into the backyard. Occasionally I would see him sitting in his screened back porch with what appeared to be binoculars, but he never ventured out. Then today, bOoM! Randy is back. Same backyard, same tree with no birds, same leaf blower. Honestly I was starting to worry about Randy, so I’m glad he’s back. But now I take shorter showers, just in case.

M.

Bursting of the Bubble

The thing about vacation is, if done right, it can shield you from the harsh realities of the world. That’s what happened to me last week. I was far enough removed from all news sources (I never read a paper or turned a television on) that I had no idea what was happening, and I was blissfully ignorant. In fact, on the way to New York I was uploading a video to social media of me singing a geographically relevant song to my husband (a tradition we *cough* both *cough* love on road trips) when I caught a glimpse of the 82nd Airborne loading a plane in Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. I messaged our nephew to make sure he was still safely on leave in Kansas City, and he was. He is. For now. That’s all I needed to know at that moment. I fell back into the black hole of vacation bliss.

That was until the train ride to New York City on our last Friday in the hole. My traveling companion made a comment about how she was trying to ignore “Iran” and I desperately tried to ignore it with her. Then a few minutes later I was standing in the dining car with Jackson, loading up on soda and candy, and I overheard a man in a booth saying that our president threatened Iran via Twitter. Bubble bursted.

What’s worse, I thought who would be okay with this?! Who is out there thinking this is fine, and normal, and that we need another war? Then yesterday, when we got home, after we caught a few winks, I logged onto Facebook and I found them. Those people who blindly support our president. Those people who take our military for granted. Those people who forget that we lost 4,500 service members in the long, arduous war with Iraq starting in 2002. Those people. Those people who say, “Oh, you’re scared of Iran? Pft!”

Because yes. I am scared of Iran. Because yes, I am scared of war. And not just because I have a lot of military in my family, but because I can see. I can remember. I can connect the dots of war. I am scared for our people. Our country. Our world. I am scared for the little boys and girls who are 18 years old and being shipped doff to a world they don’t know to fight because our president started a war on Twitter. I am scared for what this will do to our steady-ish economy. What this will do to our children. Their children. Whole generations are torn in war. Do these people really not remember? Have they never read a history book? Are they so blinded by their strict opinions on anything from guns, to abortion, to Fox News that they can’t see past the tips of their noses? The answer is yes. Yes they are.

I know I’m not saying anything new to most of you. Most of you are in the boat with me. Shaking your heads. Checking to ensure your voter card is in your pocket. Holding the cross on your neck. Speaking goodnesses into the world in an attempt to change the track we are headed down. And I thank you. I thank you for all you do, all the time you spend worrying, wishing, hoping, praying. But tell me, what do we do now? Because I am lost in this moment. Lost and wishing for that hole again.

Stay safe out there.

M.

Welp, That’s Over…

Listen, I love Christmas, but holy hell y’all, I’m ready to move on with my life. Well I was, until I peeked into my laundry room and saw the mountain of dirty laundry, looked at my to-do list, at our vacation itinerary, realized I have no idea where our passports are, that I don’t have a winter coat, and oh shit, I might need snow boots for New York. You think? Probably. I know my mommies are with me on this one, most of y’all anyway. Some y’all scare me with your year-round Christmas spirit, but most of us breathe a sigh of relief when the stockings have been hung, the cookies eaten, the wrapping paper in the trash can (it’s not recyclable, y’all because it is coated paper), and the house is back to kids playing with their new toys for 24 hours, before they are bored again. I know y’all agree with me because this bad boy showed up in my feed all day yesterday…

Me! Me! Me!

It’s the stress, for sure. The anxiety. All the memos I have to keep in my head. The secrets. Oh the secrets! Every year Jerimiah and I look at each other on December 22nd are we are like, “Do we just open them all now?!” Then we decide we better not, and we wait patiently. We do test runs with how it should all be. We move secret gifts from the creaky attic to more neutral spots throughout the house. We have lost presents.

It’s the worry over doing all the things. The viewing of Christmas lights, the visiting of Santa, and now they throw the Grinch on us, what is up with that?! I have to visit the Grinch now too! It’s the planning of the meal, it’s the constant barrage of family members asking if you will be “home.” “Yes,” my husband said to someone this season, “We will be home.” Our home. Georgia. You’re welcome to stop by. (You gotta set boundaries with family members like this y’all, or your Christmas spirit will be yanked from you. Have the conversation twice, then stop. Ignore the texts and the guilt, it’s not your fault, you’re doing your best. Yeah, I’m giving myself a pep talk here.)

It’s all over now. Well sort of. I’m still getting the guilt texts, but guess who doesn’t give two shits anymore, because I am in vacation planning mode. Which coincidently was part of our Christmas and anniversary gift to each other, a trip, somewhere we want to go. Somewhere we have never been before, for pure fun. Merry Christmas to us!

So, there it is. It’s over and you can breathe a sigh of relief. We made it another year. Another Christmas. Another round with Elf on the Shelf. Another meeting with Santa Claus. Another Christmas dinner. Another going from feeling like a shitty mom to the best mom, all in 12 hours. Oh Christmas, you’re the ultimate guilt trip.

Take a break today, y’all. Sit back, sip some wine, tell your kids to leave you alone for thirty minutes, turn your cell phone off, and pat yourself on the back because you made it. And that’s over. For the next 11 months.

M.

I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don't

We love the Home Alone movies. Specifically the first and second. The third one was way off brand and Jerimiah and I cringe thinking about it, but Jackson loves all of them. So every year we watch Home Alone and Home Alone 2: Lost in New York on back-to-back nights, to fully appreciate all the fun, little nuances of the very cheesy movies from our own childhood. This year Jackson was a bit different because for the first time Jackson spent a lot of the movie asking questions like, “What ever happened to Macaulay Culkin?” and “Was Donald Trump a movie star before he was the President?” which were downers, he also took enjoyment in saying things like, “You know, if this were real life, Marv would totally die in this scene.” Shit, y’all, he’s his dad’s son for sure.

Among some of the conversations that the movies sparked this year was the question of the movies within the movies, Angels with Filthy Souls and Angels with Even Filthier Souls, which are really just a fucking delight, y’all, and I will fight you over that. Anyhoo, Jackson wanted to know if they were real, and he also wanted to know what a Tommy Gun was, which sparked the most interesting, most off the wall, most awkward of all Christmas conversations because, you guys, what actually is a Tommy Gun?

I mean I knew what they were, of course. I knew they were machine guns, and that they had round barrels, but I wondered, and so did Jackson, did they still make them? Why were they a thing? I assumed it had something to do with prohibition, which was right in the sense that a lot of mobsters during that time used them. That led to even better question, “Why did they outlaw alcohol, but not Tommy Guns?” Also, “Why are machine guns still allowed to people who have not been trained to use them?” Also, “Can I have an AK-47 when I turn 18?” Holy shit, yeah. No. No, I mean. Yes, he asked that. No, is the answer. Unless of course he lives in one of the states that currently allows 18 year olds to buy an AK-47, and trust there are several of them. Uh oh, I’m about to get all sorts of off track. Beware.

Listen, I don’t want to put a damper on the holidays for y’all, but this got me thinking. Which got me talking to Jerimiah, and got him Googling and the shit he found was alarming. No, they don’t make Tommy Guns anymore, which were invented by a man named John T. Thompson in 1918 for military use, specifically trench warfare. It started to get picked up by civilians for use during prohibition, and was used exclusively in WWII as well. It was used by the military until the 70s, then better guns came around, but Thompson was not a happy dude when he realized how dangerous his guns could be in the wrong hands. Neither was the government, so in 1934 Congress passed the National Firearms Act, which required anyone selling a submachine gun to register with the ATF. The NFA is still in use today, though as we can see, it is sorely antiquated and needs some more common sense laws attached to it. I mean, come on, man. Come the fuck on.

Here’s the other thing, Tommy Guns halted production and had a law made about them because of their shear power. Tommy Guns held 30-or 50-round magazines in their drum and could potentially shoot between 600 and 725 rounds per minute and the government deemed that a problem. In comparison, an AK-47 can hold 30 rounds and has the potential to fire 600 rounds per minute, while the AR-15 tops out around 45 rounds per minute. And guess what, I could drive my happy-ass over state lines today and come back in less than an hour with an AK-47. No mental health checks. No criminal history checks. No nothing. Of course this is a state-by-state ruling and Florida is fucking cray, we already know that, but come on, common sense gun laws anyone? In some of these states an 18-year-old can buy a semi-automatic in less than an hour, but when a woman wants to have an abortion she has to wait six weeks, see a physician and a mental health professional, and potentially hear the embryo’s heartbeat. And don’t even say some shit like, “Apples to oranges, Missy.” Nah, dog. Nah.

Here’s something fun. We have a nephew who is in the military. He was signed, sealed, and deliver to the Army by the time he was 17. At 18-years-old he was prepping for his first deployment, and when he drove back home to the midwest to see family before he left he was not allowed, by law, to have with him his 9mm pistol, which he carries on long road trips alone. He could have, however, an AK-47 if he wanted one. Or any kind of rifle, shotgun, you name it. So a young man, trained in tactical warfare, is not allowed to carry a 9mm, but sure he can load up his Jeep with hundreds of AK-47s if that’s what he wants to do. What the actually fuck, y’all? When you hear the phrase, “Common Sense Gun Laws” that is some of the shit we are talking about.

Whew. I flew off track didn’t I? I said that was gonna happen, huh? Yeah, it’s Christmastime and y’all don’t want to be learning about gun safety, I know, I know, but my son has a Red Ryder BB gun, and he just started playing Call of Duty with his daddy and this is some real shit we have to talk about, and you should all probably consider too. And yeah, give some thought to that whole waiting for an abortion, but no need to wait to buy a gun thing. I mean, an 18-year-old girl, pregnant and alone, could potentially kill herself and her unborn embryo in one shot, and the conservatives are apparently totes fine with that, because you know, that’s her right to gun ownership.

Whew. Okay. Whew.

So yeah, uhh, the Home Alone movies. Haha. They are funny. So. Funny.

Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animals. And a Happy New Year.

M.

I Would Drive 15,000 Miles…

And I would drive 15,000 more, because I have driven 15,000 miles this year and this isn’t how the song goes. But you did try to sing it to the Proclaimers for a minute, right?! Sure you did. And also, this is no joke. My husband, son, and I have driven 15,000 miles this year, and as you know, the year is not yet over. Look it, we are Midwesterners, so if I’m being honest 15,000 isn’t that much for us. You learn young in the Midwest, that if you want to see the “cool” shit, visit the “neat” places, you have to travel. And no one has money to be hopping on airplanes all the damn time, so you drive. Wanna go to a beach, one on an ocean? You be driving. Wanna go to a cool theme park? That’s a drive. Wanna see some historical shit? Some real, salt-of-the-Earth, Mother Nature, God’s Country type shit? You be driving. Want some culture? Driving. Damn, you just want to see a mountain and maybe snap a pic of an elk or something cool like that? That’s at minimum eight hours in the car. So, yeah, 15,000 miles ain’t no thing, but we aren’t stopping there. Jerimiah just booked our hotels for our New Years Eve vacay, which we will be adding another, ohhh, roughly 3,000 more miles to our total for the year. Don’t worry, I’m SURE I will have stuff to tell y’all about when I get back from Canada, Upstate New York, and New England in the dead of winter… (Note: All the red below are links to what I wrote while I was on these many trips, or just something that happened in that place, if you want to go back and reminisce with me!)

So where have we been this year to be racking up those kinda miles? Well, we started off the year with a road trip to Washington, DC where we participated in the Women’s March with friends. That was some wonderful, scary, sad, frustrating, empowering stuff. It was the week of the government shutdown, so there wasn’t much to do around town, but we did make it to the Holocaust Museum with the kids. Then there were two trips “home” and home here means the Midwest. We went to Kansas in May and then back to Missouri and Oklahoma in June. Then there were the four or five trips we made to Atlanta from Charlotte to find a house, enroll Jackson in school, etc. Then there was the actual move from Charlotte to Atlanta. And there were the subsequent trips back this year to see friends in Charlotte.

Then there was the trip to Texas.

Then there were all the trips back and forth to and from Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and Coastal Louisiana all summer long. AHHHHH!

These miles do not count all the miles that we flew, and there were several thousands of those too. Mainly Jerimiah and his crazy work schedule this year, but also a trip I took out to Arizona to see one of my best friends.

At one point, six months into living in our new house in DeKalb County, Georgia (pronounced Dee Cab, not Dee Cobb for you Midwesterners) we counted up the actual number of nights that the three of us had been home together and the findings were not good. Not good at all. Meanwhile, we have earned so many airline and hotel points that our next vacation to anywhere, is actually free. That’s a lot of miles and points, y’all. Too many, really.

We aren’t normally this busy. In fact, we are homebodies, I know that is hard to believe, but we prefer to be at home. We prefer our own beds. Jesus, it took me months to pick out my bed and I LOVE it. And I like my own bathroom and well, just my own shit, you know? But, if you always stay where you are, you will never get anywhere. So we go. We travel, we move when we need to in order to better ourselves. We linger in new places for a few days, we see new sights, meet new people. We are travelers. Lucky to be able to do it, excited about what is around the next corner. But coming home is always nice too.

So there you have it, 15,000 miles worth of traveling so far this year, hoping to make it to 18,000, and hoping to add to our experiences, our fun, our love for our country, our friends, our family, and the world. Thanks for sharing in our adventures!

M.

Did You Take Your Pills?

Back in October my mom came to stay with us for a month. One afternoon, early on in her visit, we went to a food festival and it wasn’t super fun. I was stressed out by the crowds and the fact that no one, not my mom, my son, nor my husband knew what they wanted to eat, or didn’t want to eat. For the first half hour they just followed me around in a line, in the middle of this crowded place, and relied on me to pick food for them, to find somewhere for them to eat, to get the tickets, to choose the vendors. And finally I fucking snapped, as one does from time to time. I sat my mom and son down with a hot dog and a soda, and I grabbed my husband’s arm, took him away for a minute and said, “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, DUDE?!” He realized then that he needed to step up and help a little, but he was overwhelmed too. Why we thought that was a good idea, I’ll still never know, but we learned a valuable lesson that day. We just can’t bite off more than we can chew.

That night I was feeling better. We had come home and relaxed, planned some activities for later in the week. I was treading lightly because my mother often tells me that I treat her like a child, say for instance when I grab her arm when she steps off of a curb. I do this because she suffers from neuropathy, and well, that’s never going to get better. She needs a cane, but she refuses. So instead she hopes she steps correctly when she steps off curbs and such. If my sister grabs her arm, my sister is helping her. If I do it, I’m treating her like a child. Then again, if I don’t grab her arm, then sometimes I am “being mean” to her. It’s a lose/lose situation with my mother. It always has been. I’m used to it.

So there I was, throwing ideas out about things we could do, but I was being mindful of a few facts. Like for instance, my mom can’t sit still for too long because she says it hurts her back and joints. She also can’t walk for too long because of the same reasons. So I am careful when planning things, not too much walking, or at least places to rest. Not too much sitting, long plays are out. As I was offering things, she was not giving me much to work with. I kept asking, “Does that sound like fun?” and she kept saying, “Whatever you guys want to do.” So finally I told her that, no, it wasn’t whatever we wanted to do, we have to account for a lot of things and I want to make sure it is something she can handle doing. That’s when she looked at me, dead in the eye and asked, “Did you take your pills today?”

I was taken aback, quite frankly. Because when someone asks, “Did you take your pills today?” what they are really saying is, “I think you are being crazy, and maybe if you took your pills you would feel better.” So I asked my mother what was bothering her. I asked her this because I have had enough therapy to know that she was projecting. See, my mother has pills she is supposed to take every day. Anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, but she won’t take them. She thinks it’s the kind of thing you can skip doing for weeks at a time, which means they will never help her, because no, that isn’t how those pills work. And even if I had missed a dose of my pill that’s okay, because the pills I take stay in my system, they build up every day. That’s how those kinds of pills work. I know this. She knows this. It’s all common knowledge.

So my mother did a very my mother thing and went into a tirade about how I am mean to her. About how my sisters don’t treat her this way. About how she just can’t handle me and my “ways.” I suspect my “ways” are honest, adult, conversation. I ignored that, because it is the best thing to do, and I went on to explain that asking someone if they “took their pills” is incredibly rude and she needs to stop saying it. She went downstairs in tears and probably called my sister to tell her I was being mean. I’m beyond moved by any of that at this point.

But this is maybe something you all need to know. Some of you anyway. Well, two things really: 1. It’s not okay to ask someone on medication for mental illness if they in fact took their pills, unless, they are so low down, that you are honestly afraid that they haven’t been taking their pills and that they are to the point where you should be seeking medical attention for them. And even then, it should only be to someone who you know, and love, and that you are in this fight for, or with, every day. Like my husband could ask me that. He could ask me that and really mean, “Have you given up on yourself, because I haven’t.” But when my mother says it, she’s just being mean.

And 2. It is completely okay and necessary to tell people this. To set boundaries with your family members and friends. If someone is routinely asking you this, in the manner that is mean or uncaring, just to prove a point, rather than to the guts to say, “You know what, you’re being a little wonky right now, let’s talk” then you need to tell them that it is mean and that they need to stop. This is not the only time when this is okay to say to someone. Boundaries are very important and you should not feel uncomfortable about setting them.

A couple of days later my mom said she asks my sister this a lot when she is “being crazy.” I asked her if my sister got upset when she said it and she said no. I assured her that yes, she probably did, but that she won’t tell her. My other sister, I told her, probably would get mad. That’s when she told me she likes to say things to that sister to make her mad sometimes, she finds it funny. So yeah, that’s the kinda mom I’m dealing with. I know I usually only share cool, funny stories about my mom, but trust, it’s not all cool and funny. And I’m sure your relationships with your parents or family members aren’t all cool and funny too. And when it’s not, then try to help them, and if they don’t want the help, then leave. You don’t need that shit. And they will learn. Or they won’t. And either way, at least you can say that you tried.

Go forth and set boundaries today, y’all. It will help, I promise.

M.

Duke’s Christmas List

If you’re new here, Duke is my standard poodle. His full name is Sir Duke Barkington of Charlotte (even though he was born in South Carolina, shh, he doesn’t like to talk about that). We named him Duke for three very different reasons. Jerimiah chose Duke because he’d always wanted a dog named Duke. He said it was a “cool dog name.” Granted, he always envisioned naming a kick-ass dog like a German Shepherd that name, but instead he got a poodle. Jackson picked the name Duke because of the big, brown, fluffy dog in the movie “The Secret Life of Pets” (our Duke is also big, brown, and fluffy), and I chose Duke because of John Wayne, obviously. Sir, because he’s French nobility (so he thinks), Barkington because that’s one awesome surname, and “of Charlotte” as one does with royal lines.

Duke, as we refer to him in casual company, is big, and goofy, and recently neutered so he’s working through some stuff. But I did sit down with him yesterday and ask him to write out a Christmas list to send “Baby Jesus.” He’s very confused about Christmas, and Santa, and religion, and well, most things. This might be a good time to tell you he’s also a Republican. He was just born that way. There’s no conversion therapy. Believe me, I’ve checked. And not that this is an excuse, but again, he was born in South Carolina.

Anyway, I asked Duke what he wanted Santa, err, Baby Jesus to bring him and he proceeded to write Baby Jesus a letter and I’m sharing it with you today just in case you have a big, brown, fluffy, Republican dog to buy for too. You’re welcome.

M.

From the Desk of Sir Duke Barkington of Charlotte

Dear Baby Jesus,

Remember last year, when my family put the Christmas tree up as a sacrifice to quench your thirst for plastic? And remember when I immediately took it down, chewed up the light cord, and ate three or four of Mommy’s presents? You still gave my gifts! Remember that?! You still, even though I destroyed your sacrifice, stuffed my stocking with treats and tennis balls. Since I wasn’t the best boy last year and you still gave me gifts, well, I can tell Baby Jesus that you are a generous soul, like me! I haven’t torn the tree up once this year. Even though Mommy had my testicles removed to teach me a lesson. What the lesson was, I don’t know, but I’m trying to be better.

So in the spirit of goodness and forgiveness I bring forth my list of Christmas demands wishes. Thank you. In Baby Jesus Jeff Session’s name we pray. Merry men!

Duke’s Christmas List

  • My testicles back, if not possible then the testicles of the doctor who took mine away.
  • A Cabbage Patch Doll, sourced locally from the Cabbage Patch General Hospital, with an additional 287 Cabbage Patch Doll heads. Not cabbage heads. I may know the difference.
  • A device that allows me to get into the lid of the trash can, can be creative, one-of-a-kind device. Must be operated by mouth and frustration.
  • Box of paper clips along with a detailed description of what they are, what they do, and why they make my gums bleed when I eat them.
  • A surefire win for President Trump in the 2020 elections. Nothing with Ukraine though, we’ve tried that.
  • Seven cases of whipped cream. Can be any brand except Starbucks, I don’t shop there anymore, since they didn’t put “Merry Christmas” on their cups seven years ago.
  • Socks. Just lots of socks, no questions asked.
  • A Chick-Fil-A gift card.
  • 700 tennis balls, the good kind, you know which kind I’m talking about, don’t cheap out.
  • A wife. She can be any breed as long as she’s a standard poodle. Must be white and from the United States. No French speakers.
  • A full spa day where Mommy doesn’t remind me 50 times that what she pays for my haircuts is ten times what she pays for her own, so I “better not stay outside too long in the damn rain.”
  • A rainstorm.
  • A stuffed Grinch. I saw it at Petsmart, but Mommy wouldn’t buy it for me. She said it cost too much. I get the sneaking suspicion that my stuffies come from secondhand stores. That’s not fair. I want brand new stuffies to rip apart in less than a minute.
  • Unrestricted access to all the bathrooms in the house. And any subsequent house I find myself.
  • A Trump Chiapet.

Thanks you Baby Jesus Santa, I look forward to our time together in a few weeks, wherein you attempt to come down the chimney and I stand at the bottom and wait to bite you. Your cookies will be long gone. Better bring a taser.

Love,

Duke

Let Us Alone: My Close Call with Florida

We’ve been dealing with a little scare the last few months. Jerimiah was told back in September that they were moving him from the place he has been supporting, Baton Rouge, to a different location. First we were told we would most likely have to actually move again, which meant we would have been in Georgia for less than a year. A couple options were thrown at us, and neither of them were good. In fact, they were sorta crappy. One was New Orleans and one was Tampa, Florida. Yeah. Sure, there are worst places to live than New Orleans, like anywhere in the state of Florida. And if we have to move again we would really rather it be a move OUT of the South. But you know us, we looked at each other, took a big sigh, and braced for impact.

Part of bracing for impact meant that we decided that wherever we ended up, we were not all moving together at once. Because Jackson HAS to finish fifth grade in one school. Quite specifically this school, the coolest, most awesome school we have been in, with the coolest, most awesome teacher he has ever had. Which meant chances were good that Jackson and I would be living alone for several months in our house, and Jerimiah would be living in a roach-infested, cheap apartment in a bad part of either New Orleans or Tampa. Cause two house payments is not a thing we can do. But, here comes the happy ending: We got word last week that we don’t have to move! He is still supporting Tampa rather than Baton Rouge, but they want him to stay in the ATL because he has growth here (and if I may, he scored the highest score on this totally obscure, weirdo test they give people that his boss has ever seen #SmartestGuyEver) and for that we are thankful.

But when I was deep down in the shit last month, thinking we might have to move, and kinda sad about it, I started finding ways to make myself happy. When I thought of New Orleans, I pushed the idea of swampy, pathetic, poor-economic, low test scores, rampant racism, and flooding out of my mind and tried to focus on the good. Which boiled down to three things: Living in a historically-rich area, cheap housing prices, and visitors. Right now we have about two friends and our moms who visit us with regularity. I’m not mad, y’all, just disappointed. I thought since a lot of people consider New Orleans a “cool vacation spot” maybe we would get more traffic.

Florida was a little tougher. Sure there are the beaches (Tampa is on the Gulf side though, so it doesn’t count), and discounted Disney tickets, but it’s still fucking Florida. It’s like saying we were moving to Texas, but at least in Florida there’s diversity. In order to humor myself I started thinking up headlines that I may find myself in one day. You know the whole Florida Man thing. Well these are Florida Woman headlines, more specifically ones that I might be involved with like “Florida Woman Fends off Would-be Attacker with a Wine Bottle and a Matted-up Poodle” or “Florida Woman Loses $20 at the Roulette Table, Attacks Row of Penny Slots Convinced they were Betting Against Her”. You know, stuff like that. So without further ado, I present to you (in a very happy way because I don’t have to move any further South than I am right now):

Florida Woman Headlines, Missy Edition

  • Florida Woman Robs Convenient Store, Stealing Only Over-priced Lunchables
  • Florida Woman Hires Exorcist for Tampa-area Home, Attempting to Rid Ghost of WWF Wrestler Bam Bam Bigelow
  • Florida Woman Exchanges Humorous Texts with 65-year-old Retiree, She Believed was a Dolphin
  • Florida Woman Covers Hers Dog in Bologna, Attempts to Lure Baby Alligators to Backyard
  • Florida Woman Places Order for 157 Pounds of Chicken Wings and One Diet Coke
  • Florida Woman Attaches 10 Baby Alligators to Her Fingertips, Tells Everyone “Got my nails did!” is Escorted from Walmart
  • Florida Woman Claims she Found an “Endangered Owl” in her Backyard, Refuses to Give Live Owl to Authorities
  • Florida Woman Loses Bingo Jackpot, Flips Tables at Senior Center
  • Florida Woman Outside Piggly Wiggly with Llama, is “Unpaid, Unsolicited Endorsement” says Grocery Chain, When Reached for Comment, Florida Woman Mounted Llama and Rode Away
  • Florida Woman Makes Children Uncomfortable at Bus Stop, After Approaching with Phone Demanding they Tell her What “Flakka” is
  • Florida Woman Drunk at PTO Meeting, Demands Repayment for “Check she sent in Last Week”, PTO President says “She doesn’t even go here”

Okay, okay, you know I kid, y’all. I would never harm any animals. Not even a baby alligator. But I thought I might leave you with a bit of knowledge about this state that we despise so much. This is a true story, so true in fact, I am adding the link to the bottom of the page.

In 1845, the State of Florida decided on their flag and motto. The flag passed, but the motto: “Let Us Alone” did not, and because of the way it all went down, it would seem that nothing was actually, lawfully passed. Which is why years later Florida got a different flag. But this was what they originally wanted to be their flag. Sans the motto, but if you ask me, they should have just let them have it. And we should all heed their warnings…

Florida State Flag History from 1845

M.

We're All Mad Here

One of my favorite subscriptions, Creative Nonfiction, is having a huge sale. They are unexpectedly moving from the location they have been for many years, and are selling off their inventory and back issues at LOW, LOW prices. Naturally I perused their “Clearance” section for good deals. Y’all know I love a good deal, and the good deals were bountiful. Many books from Lee Gutkind, many back issues of their magazine, and even some anthologies, all for an average price of about five buckaroos. As I started to look deeper into the back issues, I noticed that most of the ones I wanted were already sold out. I was all, what gives? So I started looking for patterns and lo and behold they came, as they usually do. The sold out copies were centered around two themes: Finding joy in dark times and mental illness. So, there you have it. We’re all fucked up.

I know you know this already. But damn it’s hard to see sometimes. Especially when you’re down there, in the thick of it. And I also know that my little, let’s call it a gathering of intel (as it wasn’t really research) about what people are buying in a very specific holiday sale, at a very specific, pretty unknown publication, isn’t a tell-all about the state of the world, but… but… is it though?

On of my favorite stories is Alice in Wonderland. I love it so much, that I can overlook Carroll’s opium use (just adds to this particular story), his penchant for young girls (let’s call it pedophilia), and the hookah-smoking caterpillar. And yes, a deep dive into that bitch can elicit a million different readings. It’s about growing up, obviously, it’s about puberty quite specifically, it’s about social climbing, sure. It’s about desire, idyllic beauty, innocence. Then all the really DARK stuff too. But, one of my favorite parts is when Alice is talking to Cheshire Cat and she’s all whiny and bitchy (hormones) and she says, “Buuuuut I don’t want to go among mad peopllllllle.” And Cheshire Cat is all, “Bitch. We all mad here.” I’m paraphrasing. Alice goes on in her bitchy way to be all, “How u know I’m mad, asshole?” And he’s all, “U here ain’t u?” End scene.

In the Disney version Cheshire Cat says something quite different when Alice says she doesn’t want to go among mad people. He says, “Ohh, you can’t help that. Most everyone is mad here.” Then he laughs his weirdo laugh. See the difference? In the real, shroom-enlightened brain of Lewis Carroll, we’re all mad. In Disney’s version just some of us are. Which can really fuck with you, because Disney’s dead wrong. We’re ALL mad here.

I don’t know a single person in my life that isn’t a little cuckoo-bananas. Sure, they might be cool as a cucumber most of the time, but every, single person I know has a thing. Maybe just one. Maybe several. Usually several, but they have at least one thing that makes others go, “Hmmm…” And that’s normal, y’all. It’s okay. In fact, it’s preferred. Because what would this here world be like if we all were great and wonderful all the time? If none of us were looking for joy in dark times? If there were no dark times? If none of us were struggling daily with mental illness, or trauma, or just trying to make the ends meet? It would be a shitty, shitty world I’ll tell you that.

Of course Disney is linking to something deeper here. Now mind you, I’m talking about the original Alice in Wonderland from Disney in 1951. So I’m talking about a time in American History where shit was real bad. Not for everyone, pause, not for all white people, but for most white people. Black people and other minorities, well they weren’t even “people,” so there’s that. I’m also talking about a time when your run-of-the-mill mental illness could get you locked away for all eternity. Like, for real. This was pre-prozac. This was when mental illness was not considered a thing. Maybe you were sad sometimes. That’s okay. Pull up those bootstraps and go on. The sad, sad reality is, there are still a lot of people who think this way. Now, most of them are dying out, but still we have them in our lives. We see them everyday. They are running our country. These people who don’t think mental illness is real. These people who believe they are not afflicted by it. These people who hand-to-whateverGod think this is just all made up, fanciful, Lewis Carroll shit. Hmpf.

Imma stop. Y’all know me. I can get going down a rabbit hole, way bigger than Alice’s, about mental illness. About trying to find joy among the wreckage. And for the most part, you know what I’m gonna say. Keep on keeping. Keep up the good work. Go to therapy. Get your meds right. Talk to people. Check on your people. YES! Even your people who make mad fun of you for going to therapy or taking meds. Because the chances are good that they are in the same boat as you, but with no raft to throw on shore, y’all. Their ego, their pride, their family members or friends, their own mental illness is making it hard for them to talk openly about their own mental illness. I know this sounds crazy, but it’s true. It’s so very true. And sure, Alice in Wonderland isn’t real. There are no Queen Cards coming to life, there are no rabbits who are late, late, for a very important date. But mental illness is real. And trying to find and create joy in this shitbag, upside-down world is real (and here is a link to the Creative Nonficiton sale to prove it: Holiday Sale at Creative Nonfiction). And pedophilia is real (watch yo kids!) and opioid addiction is real. But you know what else is real? Help is real. Talking about mental illness helps. That is real. I’m living proof. And also I’m here. If you need me.

M.

Nutter Butter Buddy

The first time I used a screen print machine I was a 19-year-old college drop-out, working at a factory that mass-produced 3M products by local prisoners. I wasn’t a prisoner. I also wasn’t a screen printer. But, I was one of the few people that knew how to work a computer, wouldn’t try to get high off the chemicals, and didn’t ask too many questions. The particular factory I worked at was just a five-minute drove from my house, which was good cause I didn’t have a car. My best friend suggested we both apply for the job one morning while we were on line at McDonalds. She was newly pregnant, looking for a job where she didn’t need to stand on her feet all day, and I was dabbling with the idea that college wasn’t for me, so we applied. Being recent high school graduates jumped us to the top of the application list. When neither of us pissed hot, we got hired. 

The company was, and still is I assume, a manufacturer of heating elements, circuits, and LED boards with facilities in both Kansas and Pennsylvania. In my hometown it was one of the few places you could get a decent paying job and benefits with only a high school education. The campus we worked at was also a member of the KansasWorks program, a program billed to “help non-working adults, who lack high school diplomas, learn new skills and find jobs.” This company also partners with the state prison for an Inmate Work Release program, which allows “eligible, non-violent prisoners to work learning new skills,” because studies show that the people who participate in these programs have lower rates of recidivism, and earn higher wages once they complete their sentence. And because Leavenworth is ripe with prisoners and you don’t have to pay them a lot.

Each station had a couple of inmates working on it, with a couple of civilians. My inmate was Lonnie. Because screen printing is a more delicate process than say, wire assembly, and because our equipment was large and stationary, there was only room for two people in the screen printing area, Lonnie and me. 

Lonnie was a big guy, at least six feet tall, probably closer to six and a half. He was quiet and sincere. He was obviously gay. You know the type I mean. He never said it, only eluded to it. Winking at the backs of cute men. Smiling a shy smile. He spoke with a pronounced lisp. He’d been in a prison a long time. I didn’t ask him much about his life, nor he mine. He got to work on a bus, one of those long, white inmate transport busses you might occasionally see on the highway. They would drop them off at 5:30 am, and be back to pick them up at 3:00 pm. We worked an eight-hour shift, with two breaks and a lunch. The inmates were not permitted to leave the property and some were not permitted to leave the building, even though the company owned several buildings on a large lot in the city. Lonnie was one of those inmates unable to leave the building. Lonnie was also one of the inmates who had to check-in with a prison guard every few hours. I didn’t know why for a long time, then one day I did.

Lonnie was a murderer. I’d heard this in whispers from other people, but the day Lonnie told me, well, I was still shocked. We were sitting on the steps by the vending machine sharing a Nutter Butter bar. We usually didn’t get to take breaks at the same time, since one of us had to stay at our station, keeping an eye on the ink wells, and what not. But on this day we were slow, so I had been moved to wire assembly. A job I absolutely loathed because it sounds exactly like what it is: You sit on a stool for eight hours and you assemble wires. Ugh. Anyway, because of this, Lonnie and I happened to be on break at the same time. My friend was on a different break, so I was alone, and Lonnie was the only person who sat next to me.

Maybe it was because we were away from our area. We didn’t have a job to focus on. Maybe it was because it had been about three months and he was comfortable with me. Maybe it was just his nature, but I gave him half of my Nutter Butter bar, something I knew I wasn’t supposed to do because that was considered contraband and he in turn thanked me, took a bite of it, and said, “I killed my lover.”

The thing is, I had never had anyone admit a murder to me before. In fact, I don’t think I have since either. Thankfully, I suppose. Yeah, thankfully. So I didn’t really know how to react. Like, do I say, “Oh, okay. Cool.” I mean, he was obviously caught and convicted. He knew what he did. He knew it was not okay. And now I knew what he did too. So there was this sort of awkward silence while we ate our Nutter Butter bars and listened to the sounds of our chews. Then after the Nutter Butter was gone, I looked at Lonnie and asked if he wanted another one. Sure, he said with a smile. Then I walked over and bought a second Nutter Butter bar. Came back, took my spot on the steps, and split the second bar with him. He said thank you and again, we chewed.

I had so many thoughts going through my head. Mainly questions. How? Who? Why? Where? I wasn’t afraid of Lonnie, not once, and this didn’t change anything. I just wanted to know what happened. Because Lonnie didn’t seem like a man who murdered for fun. But pretty soon our second Nutter Butter bars were gone, the bell rang for us to get back to our stations, and we parted ways. Later when I told my friend what he had said she gasped and said he was probably lying. That they wouldn’t let people convicted of murder work there. I shrugged in agreement, but I knew she was wrong.

A few months later Lonnie wasn’t there one day. A fellow inmate who sometimes worked with us came over to take his post. I asked where Lonnie was and the inmate said he was “in max,” which meant Lonnie had been locked up again. No halfway house, no more work-release. He went back in to maximum security. I was sad that I would never see Lonnie again.

A couple months later I quit. Enrolled at the University of Kansas, started my life over. But I have never forgotten about Lonnie. And I never will.

M.

It’s Not Friday

Me: (Standing at the glass window waiting for a fax from Volkswagen to arrive at the MVD, while Jerimiah stands ten feet away on the phone with the person supposedly sending the fax) It’s always busy here, huh?

MVD Clerk: Actually, it’s slow today. For a Friday.

Me: It’s Thursday.

MVD Clerk: (Cocks her head to the side, eyes to the ceiling, counting days in her head) Ohhhhh, giiiiiirrrrrllllllll. You’re right. It’s Thursday. (Inhales a very long breath) Mmmmmmmmmmm, Lord Jesus. I thought it was Friday.

Me: Hehehe, yep… (backing up a bit from the glass)

MVD Clerk: Mmmmmhmmmmm. (Leaning forward onto her desk, with a crazy smile on her face.) It sure is Thursday. Mmmmmnmmmmmm.

Me: (Trying to make eye contact with Jerimiah to see if he sees what I am seeing.) Hehehe…

MVD Clerk: (Tapping her nails on the counter.) I just WOKE UP thinking it was FRidAy! You know what I mean? (Voice is changing levels.) You ever do that? You do that, right?

Me: Uh huh! Yes, yeah, yeah, yeah, all the time. Haha, I think it’s Friday all the time. Hehehe… (motioning with head for him to come toward me.) I guess you have one more day, huh?

MVD Clerk: (Legs are jumping up and down now.) OOOOOOHHHHHHH, Lord! Yes! One MoRe DAAAYY! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Me: (Clutching at Jerimiah as he walks toward us.)

(MVD Supervisor walks over with a piece of paper and slides it onto the clerks desk.)

MVD Clerk: Okay! Whew! We bout to get you guys outa here. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

God bless the MVD Clerks.

I got Georgia tags.

It’s not Friday.

M.

Ok, Boomer

I’m not going to pretend to know what started this #OkBoomer hashtag, mainly because I have been trying not to watch news, or stay abreast on current events as of late because well, shitbag, dumpster fire world, and all, but every once in a while something comes across my social media bubble and pulls me into it. And today it is this #OkBoomer thing. And from what I have gathered it’s a slight, a knock at, a diss to, the Baby Boomers because they have a lot to say about the things Millennials and all the rest of the younger generations are doing, a lot of negative things, and if we really step back and observe, we can see that the Boomers are responsible for a lot of what is happening now. Because it takes literal decades to fuck shit up this bad. Yet, here they are, talking ’bout “Make America Great Again,” but that’s not even what I’m upset about.

I’m upset with the way they have this attitude about how “we,” as in the generations after them, can’t just work hard, pull up our bootstraps when times are hard, make more money, and “get it done” like they did. It’s as if they are so out of touch with reality that they honestly, hand-to-God, believe that’s still a thing that can happen. Uh, no. Times have changed, Boomers. This isn’t 1958. A dollar isn’t what a dollar was. You can’t work a part-time job and pay your way through college. You can’t make $8/hr and raise a family. You can’t have Union jobs now and expect to be taken care of, to not be made to fight for better wages and healthcare.

And a majority of us who are trying to get us out of the mess we are in, don’t remember a world even remotely resembling the one you had. Our childhood is marred with mass shootings in our schools, terrorists attacks, and war. Jesus, our friends are always at war. We all know someone who has been to Iraq, or Afghanistan, at one time or another. And we all know some who never came back. Meanwhile, I saw where that Disney woman, the heiress to the Disney fortune, asked what Millennials have accomplished in their life. What have we done? Um, survived? Is that not enough for you?

My personal favorite is the Boomers whacked-out advice like, “The problem is no one wants to work 70 hours a week anymore,” and “College isn’t for everyone, stop trying to push college on people.” Two things: 1. No college isn’t for everyone, but if you want to be able to survive, and not live paycheck to paycheck, and you don’t want to be in constant fear of losing your job, or going broke if you get sick, then you have to have a salaried gig with benefits, and guess who gets those jobs? College-educated people. And you know how I feel about higher education and critical thinking, you can’t have one without the other… 2. You are right, we DO NOT want to work 70 hours a week, and for the love of all that is holy, if you are working 70 hours a week, you are doing something very wrong. No one needs to work that much anymore. Technology has made our work lives easier, which has allowed us to be home with our families more, which has helped the economy, helped our parenting, helped our marriages, even helped equal out the roles in the home. (Seriously, if you’re working that much you are probably pretty ineffective at your job.) But guess what the Boomers don’t like: Equality. Being at home with family. Men in parenting roles. Because that isn’t how it was done back then, because they still are living in the “way back then.”

I saw this meme the other day that had an older gentleman, a Boomer, and it said, “Back in my day we didn’t get offended so easily…” and at the bottom it said, “Back in his day, they drained a whole pool if a black person stuck a toe in.” And yeah, it made a stunningly great point. But still, that’s not what I’m upset with. Boomers have never claimed to be self-aware, and we know they aren’t, Jesus, they wouldn’t go to a therapist if it meant saving their lives, let alone saving the lives of their children! What makes me upset is this form of nostalgia. That “Back in my day” bullshit. It’s fun for you to sit around in your underwear and yell, “Back at my day” at Fox News, but when it comes up in my newsfeed, you can bet your ass I will have some stuff to say about it.

Whew. I think I flipped my shit, y’all.

Sorry about that.

Actually, no, I’m not sorry.

I’m just a woman, stuck somewhere between a Millennial and who knows what or where else, trying to make my world better, my community better, my family better, by doing what I think is right. Every generation has had its breaking point, and I guess, I hope, this is ours. I hope we can push the Boomers aside (and the rest of the people who have no fucking clue) and actually get shit done. Get our climate straightened out. Get our oceans clean again. Save the damn bees. Elect representation that actually represents us. Educate all the people who want to be educated. Get all kids a hot meal everyday. Raise minimum wage. Lower higher education, prescription drug, and healthcare costs. Pass sensible gun laws. Jesus, there is so much more we want to do, and you know what, we might just do it.

And yes, I know the rhetoric, the discourse on the “Us v. Them” bullshit, unfortunately, that’s what it’s boiled down to. Either you are with us. With this planet, with the younger generations, and making this world better for ALL people, or you are against us. Time to make a choice. As my Boomer mom would say, “It’s time to shit or get off the pot.” Maybe you can relate to that.

M.