I don’t typically sleep well. I have a million tricks, but some nights, they all fail.

Too hot, too cold, too hungry, too full, too thinky too sad, all reasons the sweet embrace of Morpheus turns into a mocking middle finger.

Tonight, I’m fairly certain my sin was an after dinner couch nap.

So I was laying in bed, too warm, trying to read to sleep. Rick’s evil floof got under the covers to entrap MORE heat next to my skin. Sigh. Evil floof does not like being dislodged from her chosen spot and will make a fuss, potentially waking Rick. I decided to just deal with her.

Knowing I’m her mahm bitch now, Evil Floof starts kicking me sharply in the back, startling me. Keep in mind that this is a tiny bit of fur and eyes, smaller than Rick’s combat boots. And yet, Evil Floof is kicking like a goddam mule.

Sigh.

I give in, letting the rotten little monster have my side of the bed and head to the couch in the cooler living room.

After arranging the couch and pillows to suit me and turning on Star Wars at low volume, who do I see in the glow of the crawl on the screen?

If you said Evil Floof, you get a cookie.

Now Luke is whining about wanting to go to the Academy and she is biding her time perched on the far end of the couch.

Evil Floof isn’t done yet, and no matter where I go, I will still be her bitch.

I remember as a kid, it seemed like every year was filled with huge, titanic changes. Probably in part due to the structure of school, every year is pretty clearly marked and defined.

It’s not usually really like that as an adult- years just kind of flow by to the point that you’re surprised it’s spring or fall again, surprised at how winter seems to be lasting longer and longer, surprised that the new truck yall just bought has 150,000 miles on it. Time sneaks up on you.

I took the day off of everything today, and it’s probably a good thing I did. You could say I was trying on the idea of retirement for size. What would it really be like? Is it something I actually want to pursue at this point in my life?

I slept in til eight, did my workout, watched Alice Fraser’s Savage (and cried), played video games, read a book, didn’t cook anything, and ordered groceries. That’s it, the sum total of my whole day. I spoke to no one, and no one spoke to me.

One of the worst parts of this past year has been throwing away a lot of comforting illusions. And I’m sure to some folks, they’d say why bother throwing them away, who are they hurting? Well, me.

My mom wasn’t a great person. She wasn’t a great mom. Please understand that I don’t say this to hurt anyone, it’s a truth I needed to see and know. Just like I need to see and know those parts of myself that came from her. I guess in a way, I don’t need a warm, fuzzy, comforting lie of who she was to make me feel.. goddess, I don’t even know. Better about myself? It’s been a year of hard fucking truths like this… realizing that the memories of a child reassessed as an adult add up to a lot of things that frankly scare me.

I don’t want to become that person… that person who isn’t happy, can’t be happy, and doesn’t want to care about anyone because it can hurt. I’m not a masochist or anything, it just seems in the 40 plus years I’ve been running around that the only parts of life that are real come from investing in others, caring about them, being brave enough to love. Even when you lose them. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts. Maybe especially when it hurts.

What does all this thinking of the day add up to?

Well, I’m not ready to retire yet. I was bored out of my fucking skull. There were any number of things I could have decided to do… I just didn’t. And I felt like it would be way too easy to just keep… not doing. After all, that’s pretty much what mom did for the last few years that I was able to observe, up close and personal.

You could say, in a very special way, I’ve been the last year and a day thinking about what the everliving fuck I want to do with the rest of my life, and you’d be right.

Here’s what I know. I want to put some good in the world. I want to make people think. I want people to know that I care, both personally and in that broad, impersonal way that I want people to find what makes them happy. I do have a bunch of family left that I don’t really know after almost 30 years spent far, far away… and I don’t really want to be personally involved with them (and to be fair and honest, I don’t really think they have an interest in being involved with my life either!), but from this remove? I hope they are living happy, fulfilling lives pursuing whatever seems best to them. I want to go on telling stories for as long as they are in my head. I want to keep making Rick happy, one Lego kit or giant replica at a time. And I want to keep both eyes open for the things and people that would get in the way of the contentment we’ve found.

I’ve spent too much of my life unhappy for a thousand reasons, all beginning with fear and what I didn’t see or what I couldn’t control.

So there.. lots of deep, soul searching if you’re into that kind of thing. Just a few more things to say and I’ll wrap up this entry.

I talked a little bit about how time just flows by when you’re an adult, and that’s mostly true. But there are still the deep cuts of change that you mark time by… and one of them is loss. Mom’s now been gone for a year, and all I can feel is sad for her and how much time was wasted for her being unhappy. But it was never my responsibility to make her happy- all I could and did do was my best to adhere to her wishes and let her know I cared. And fuck anyone that has a negative opinion about what I did or how I did it. I hope to heaven you never have to make the decisions or go through what I did.

Love is still the realest, truest thing I know of in this world. And you don’t stop loving someone just cause they’re gone, and I don’t think they stop loving us either. Maybe that’s a little fantasy I have that makes me feel closer to the folks that I’ve lost and miss, but it feels true to me.

After a lot of deep thought, I’m going to shut down my social media accounts. I am not seeing news of my friends anymore, just ads. I don’t think any book sales are being driven there, just noise. Instead, I invite folks to reach out, and I’ll keep blathering on here, because it’s what I do.

Be good to each other, cause life’s too fuckin short.

One of the less fun things about death is that someone has to figure out something to do with your stuff. If you haven’t been following along, let’s just say I have a lot of stuff to do something with.

Or more to the point, had. The mister and I spent the weekend clearing out about 1/3rd of the garage that held the contents of an apartment.. like almost the whole damn apartment. The list of things we need or could use is pretty short, so I decided to have a yard unsale.. meaning there were a bunch of household items and appliances we straight up gave away. I figured times are hard, and these things didn’t get to be a part of the home they were intended for, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be part of A home.

Y’all… I know deep down I did the right thing, but it’s been a hard fucking weekend. I found things I haven’t though of in 30 years- the marble chessboard my exhusband and I bought my mom while we were on a cruise to Mexico. The double knit comforter that we helped my grandmother make.. oh my god, the hours of combing thrift stores to get enough fabric to cut up and stitch! The quilt my great grandmother made for my mom and dad when they got married (that one, I kept.)

I took pics and posted it to the local giveaway group with a few simple rules to keep myself from going batcrap and try to insure that folks were getting stuff they needed. Oh. My. God. Yes, most of the folks that showed up to pick stuff up were just lovely. But there were a few that stole from stuff held for other people or tried to tell me about their own sick mothers so that I would give them stuff over someone else.. or the person that told me they’d been to my house and I didn’t live there. Or the person that asked for about a quarter of the stuff to be held, then never showed up at all. I even had someone tell me that people were trash and I expected too much if I was asking for honesty!

We think we only have about one more day of stuff to haul out and give away… but next weekend is soon enough. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted.

I only call this rant that /points above because ‘Fuck you, Mr. B—‘ seemed a little mean. But you know, you read it any damn way you want to, friends.

One of the weird things about grief is that you may be forced to come to terms with memories that had, well, a little candy coating that actually wasn’t there. Right about the time I had my epiphany that I didn’t need to be fat anymore, I started to remember all those cute little ‘jokes’ that weren’t. All the times I was corrected for what I wore or how I sat or what I ate. Mind you, there was nothing remotely like a fresh fruit or vegetable in the fridge or pantry, breakfast was non existent, but there was always plenty of frozen convenience foods like Totino’s pizza and Little Juan chimichangas.

While I was scratching my head and saying WTF parentals? I also happened to exorcise a memory of our Physical Education teacher- 4th grade through 8th. You know the guy- fresh out of college from somewhere in the northeast, permanently tanned and gym shorted, with the clipboard and whistle as permanent fixtures upon his person. Well meaning and earnest, absolutely.

But also very, very stupid.

It was fifth grade, in the spring, when he decided to give us a pep talk leading up the presidential physical fitness exams. It was going to be more difficult than it needed to be for some of us to do well, he said, because we weren’t in good shape. Some of us were carrying a half an Arian (back when I couldn’t death glare people for using that name for me) or an extra David leg around with them. We needed to take personal responsibility for our bodies, and we would live longer, happier lives for it.

Alright, fucker- a lot of those kids were lucky to have any food on the table when they got home at night. It wasn’t as if they could turn down the mac and cheese (made from government surplus staples) and ask for a fresh salad, perhaps with some nice lean grilled chicken. The quickest way I knew of to catch major shit from my dad was to refuse to clean my plate. I knew of at least three or four kids that were straight up emotionally and physically abused. And if you really wanted to start a little crusade towards health, Mr. B—, maybe start in the school cafeteria, with the fish sticks and sponge pizza. Maybe one in five meals was actually decently healthy… but there were no choices. And if your parents were barely making it to put food on the table at night, you probably weren’t in a position to bring something healthier.

But it was our lack of our own personal responsibility that made us overweight. Okay, asshole, sure.

It’s been years since I’ve thought of this guy. And part of me thinks he’s either heard those words back in his own head and went.. well shit. I done fucked up. OR he’s doubling down on the personal responsibility aspect for eleven year olds when it comes to food management.

At least two of my friends were in tears after that little lecture. We didn’t find it inspiring; we weren’t suddenly motivated to run a 5 minute mile to show them all… we went on being who we were in that time and place, because there weren’t a whole lot of options.

That shit doesn’t work, people. Just like my dad’s little remarks didn’t work, nor my mom’s attempted bribery. The only thing that has worked has been a long, involved journey in which I don’t give a fuck about these old words that have been echoing through my head like so many pinballs over the past decades. Letting those words go, that weight (har har) go, accepting myself as I am and as I want to be.. that’s what’s done it.

That and remembering all that I want to be able to do. At the end, mom couldn’t walk anymore, she gave it up. She gave up on her body until it gave up on her.

Well fuck that, yall. There’s still a half a lifetime of living left for me, and I fucking want it. I’m not going to skip going to the places I want to go and being with the people I want to be with.

Personal responsibility- sure, Mr. B—… but as an adult, when I do have control over the variables that doomed so many kids back then. I’m sure you’re not a bad person, not at heart, and I really think you wanted to do some kind of good. I’m pretty sure he’ll never see this- there aren’t enough folks who’ll read this that go that far back or even know who I’m talking about.

Kids, adults, and everyone in between- here’s my point. Body shaming is a shitty, lousy thing to do. Sure, it keeps therapists in business and all, but trust me, we have enough rampant narcissists and weaponized incompetents to do that.

If you’re still with me, just take away this last thought for the road. I love you, you fantastic work in progress, and I believe you can be whoever it is you want to be. Need to talk, I’m here to listen. And fuck anyone that wants to tell you different.

Not like, literally, please. That’s a whole different kind of therapy you need after doing that- trust me, I’d know.

Here’s today’s reminder that there’s always something good to be found in each day.

I did not have a particularly great day, for a ton of reasons. I jacked up my ankle by trying to push through pain while running yesterday, so I had to skip my routine today. Boo. I was up from 2am to 4am last night because I forgot to take meds. Boo. Mega booked today without a whole lot of breathing room, which while I can handle, I don’t necessarily enjoy. Boo. Delays. Boo. Had some not great reminders of all the folks I feel like I have let down. Boooooooo.

I also had a grocery delivery today.. and for no reason on this earth, Heather remembered that I like cookie butter… and for no reason, she stopped into Crumbl and got me a cookie butter cookie. Just because.

What’s my point? Well, true child of chaos that I am, I have to acknowledge that for all the randomness of the AUGH WHY IS THIS A THING, there’s just as randomly appearing kindness and love and grace. And maybe I’m goofy for getting a massive lump in my throat over a cookie- but you see, it’s not about the cookie. It’s about care. Whether I feel like I deserve it or not, people care for me and want to give me that moment of special. And let me tell you, you can slog through an awful lot of bullshit if there’s a moment of special.

Every one of you have been a moment of special at some point in time. I hope I’m keeping up my end and giving some moments of special, too.

So it’s not news that I am a geek. Like a super nerdy geeky mc geek kind of geek that can tell you who shot first, why Brad McQuad was a god and the devil at the same time, name all the weyrs on Pern, point out exactly when Piers Anthony became a total pedo, explain the stack but not THACO (cause FUCK THACO) and bore you to tears by quoting Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

GEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK. kay?

Now, because I am a holy chao geeky geek, a lot of my friends (yes, even geeks have them, it’s post Lord of the Rings movies, that’s where we all found each other) are amazed that I don’t watch Critical Role. It took me ages to even watch Vox Machina because I knew it was based on Critical Role and couldn’t be arsed.

To catch up those of you that went to the good parties in high school, Critical Role is a group of people getting together to play Dungeons and Dragons on camera on purpose. I assume they’ve got some good characters (since that’s what Vox Machina is about) and there’s lots of laughs and adventure and joy and fun.

That’s not what my gripe is- and I do agree with the mister that for a lot of folks that haven’t yet rolled a nat 1 and faced the consequences (thunder crash and evvvilllllllle GM cackling), Critical Role gives them an idea of what the whole D&D thing is all about before diving in. Yeah, cool, I’m totally good with that.

Where I’m not okay is the idea that people will watch it, longing to be a part of a circle like it, to play a character and to have all the little inside jokes. I don’t listen to a lot of podcasts, either, cause I want to sit and shoot the shit with my friends and get to know them better as opposed to listening to some douchebag’s opinions on shit I only marginally care about til they slip in a sly commercials.

See, when I was growing up, that circle was the place for everyone. The kid who suddenly needed to shave and did so inexpertly around his zits. The guy that got all nervous around girls and went from highly intelligent to unable to form a coherent sentence. The chess/math/ham radio club meeting attendees.

And yeah, the girl with the cleft lip.

At that table, you became someone else, someone who stood against unimaginable foes and beat all the odds. You had friends. You had jokes that made sense to no one who wasn’t there when it happened, could never make sense without hours of context. Because you had to be there.

Being able to create that and be a part of it.. it’s magic. And the idea that people are standing on the edges, looking in at the magic when they could be stepping into it and helping to create it… well, it makes me sad.

So what’s my point? Well, if you’re watching week after week, keep an open mind to actually playing. It’s okay, we’re out of high school now, and Geek is the new Chic. Might as well get in on it and make a little magic of your own.

But, dude. Don’t watch Mazes and Monsters. It’s an awful flick and I think it may give kittens cancer everytime someone rewinds the VHS tape.

If you haven’t seen this, please take a moment and watch.

At 3:30, the rant takes a turn- ‘We sure used to be’. What’s hurting my heart as I listen to this again is that this is the lie of our times. Because in a great country, everyone is recognized for their value. All those great things Jeff Daniels is talking about, what we built and strove for and achieved… some people were credited that, yes, did amazing things.

If the last couple of years have shown me anything, it’s shown me that there’s always a cost. And as you sit in your safe, clean home with a cupboard full of food and money in the bank, you get to enjoy all of that because someone else is paying the cost.. and not getting to enjoy even a minimal level of comfort and security. Maybe it’s the person who works in the meat packing plant, worried about ICE coming in for them or their friends and family. Maybe it’s the person putting in 35 hours a week at Walmart who is worried about getting off on time so they can get to the food bank and make sure there’s dinner and breakfast and lunch. Maybe it’s the server who just got stiffed on a tip that they needed to fill an insulin prescription.

It’s great to believe in an informed electorate… but when you are thinking about the very basics of staying alive, when the fuck do you have the time or energy to listen to NPR? And when the news has spent over a hundred years focused on the story of the straight white male population and you happen to not check those boxes, why would you trust them to tell your story or stories like yours in a way that matters?

I’ve heard that it is brave to love without counting the cost. Now, I’m thinking to be brave, you have to live while seeing the cost to others and try to make a difference where you can.

Bree loves me, and on the days when I’m lucky, she doesn’t prove it.

Yesterday was not one of those days, so Mr. Lizard joined Mr. Lizard Bits, and Mr. Leakyfeather Bird in the great hereafter.

Now, since I had the unpleasant experience of briefly desecrating Mr. Bits (Cliff Notes version- it involved his head between my bare toes, screaming in tongues, and the realization that when the situation calls for it, I can, in fact, fly), Mr. Rick Wellman is called upon to perform the solemn, manly service of laying Bree’s proofs of love to rest.

What I think Rick does to accomplish this-

He removes whatever covering I have placed over the dearly departed, and sighs with melancholy regret. Gently, he wraps this vessel in a shroud, and lifts it with ineffable kindness to lay within the embrace of mother earth, that it might live again. Blowing taps on his bugle, he holds the last note, poignantly, then salutes the fallen. He then comes back into the house with a slow, solemn nod to convey that the ritual is complete.

What Rick probably actually does-

Takes the plastic bowl off the dead freakin lizard, sighing with annoyance at the damn dog. “How the hell is a dog with two inch freakin legs fast enough to catch and kill shit?” he wonders as he lifts it by the tail, carefully walking around the side of the house to the trashcan so I won’t see him to dispose of the poor lil bastard in the trashcan. Stomps back around the house, through the door, nods that it’s safe to go back into the bedroom now and hits the shower. Shakes head at Bree.

What really happens? No one knows.

Hello again, my sometime readers from your favorite sometime writer.

Like probably most of us, I’ve got a lot of thoughts going on in my head.. and I can point to Buffalo or Uvalde or Sandy Hook or the fact that a lot of us cocked our head and blinked when we heard Bowling Green and tried to remember what atrocity took place there.

But I think it has more to do with recent exposure to people and listening to what they say and watching what they do. How they treat one another. I think it has to do with reading the words of our educators, listening to the talking heads.

And a lot of thinking and feeling about all those things.

Well, cool, Ari, what does it add up to for a Gen X keyboard philosopher?

We talk too much. Communication isn’t just braying words out into the air (or flinging careless characters out into cyberspace). For communication to happen, you have to have a sender of a message and a receiver of a message, and both have to understand what was communicated in the same way.

We have become a society of senders. We are piss poor at receiving, and due to sender fatigue as they repeat over and over and do not choose their words or methods with care, the intent and clarity of the message is getting lost or distorted so that the receiver doesn’t get what the sender intended. In fact, we have become very good at receiving the wrong messages entirely.

I think to a certain extent, we speak now without even expecting there to BE listeners. And that’s really just creating random mouth noises. I don’t know about you, but I find noise to be pretty frustrating, especially if I can’t make it stop. Especially if it’s not directed to me as a receiver in any way, and yet I still have to hear noise. Somewhere along the line, the indoor voice went the way of the dodo, and I miss it deeply.

What we also have going on is a deep undercurrent of fear and frustration. If you happen to sleep well, safe and assured that tomorrow will be a better day, that you and yours are safe under a blanket of freedom and justice for all, I envy and pity you. While I’m not saying I lie awake at night waiting for someone to break in and commit nefarious acts on my kitchen appliances so that my brownies never bake evenly again, I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t very aware of the mounting examples of where safety isn’t a guarantee. Grocery stores, theaters, entertainment venues, not even running errands.

Sure, there’s a certain amount of unavoidable risk- I get into cars, I could get into a wreck. Chances are pretty good that I won’t- but the key is… that’s unintentional harm. That’s existed in my brainspace since I was a small child and realized accidents happen. It’s not a fun thing to think about, but for most of us, it’s part of the air we breathe and we accept it.

What I (and I think a lot of folk) have a harder time accepting is the idea that there are people out there who are committing intentional harm against others. We don’t know who, where, or how, but we know we are less safe. And there’s no action we can take to predict or try to be more safe beyond barricading ourselves in our homes (and I understand if you do that with weapons and act sufficiently paranoid, SWAT will get involved).

So. Fear. Frustration. Powerlessness. Put all those together in a stew with little pressure bubbles coming up to the surface as more and more of these violent events happen, and you get anger. And no lie, there’s a million reasons to be angry right now. High prices on all the things. Personal freedoms under assault. Can’t find the P on the keyboard (personal reason for annoyance as I just typed oersonal freedoms five times). Afraid for your people who could still get sick. And nothing’s getting any better.

Anger and poor communication skills are a bad, bad mix… and yet, that’s where we are right now. Like usual, I’m bringing this back to me (cause when is it not about me) because I’m the only person I get to make decisions for.

Here they are-

1. Turn away anger.
2. Say what I mean and mean what I say.

As part of my beliefs, the energy you put into the world is on you. And yeah, there’s a lot of times when I want to vent a hearty FUCK THIS. Instead, I’m taking a deep breath and doing my best to let it the fuck go. It is a feeling that doesn’t serve me. And the people in my world? They don’t deserve extra noise grating on them.

And as I type that, I’m snort laughing to myself- when is good editing not the answer?