Cloudy

 Isn't she pretty? 

She's so pretty.

She will never be mine. I have to accept that. I am sad. At least I'll get my money back. I'm done trying. She's probably too big for my space anyway.

But oh. Oh. We would have been best friends.

The Mama Bear Trap

 AztecLady has a book review on her page  Maybe She Will where there's mention of the main character, a Mother, having to go to school to advocate for her child. And Az mentioned having to advocate for her child. And it reminded me of this story:

When Mollie was in middle school in Seattle, there was a substitute teacher Mr. Green whom Mollie really liked. She would mention him occasionally and say they joked about being relatives because they had the same last name. Then one day Mollie told me that Mr. Green gave her some candy and asked her not to tell anyone because he didn't want to get in trouble for playing favorites.

I was at school the very next day. I met with the principal and explained that a teacher having a "secret" with a student is the first step in grooming. The principal did the 'oh not Mr. Green, he's a great guy, he would never...'. Anyway, I told the principal to let Mr. Green know about our conversation and to stay away from my daughter.

And I did tell Mollie. I explained how grooming works. I told her that Mr. Green might be a great guy and never harm a fly but I would never take a chance. Not with my daughter. And she understood.

Being a Mom is hell. We know what the world does to people and we need to help our kids through. Nobody has a perfect life but if we're lucky, our kids can have a safe life.

And once again, if my daughter was in the woods and there was a bear or a man: I'd rather she deal with the bear.

Bears vs. Man

Here's the new TikTok viral-on-my-page moments:

Would you (a woman) rather find a bear or a man in the forest?

How many bear attacks per year?

The 750,000 black bears of North America kill less than one person per year on the average, while men ages 18-24 are 167 times more likely to kill someone than a black bear. Most attacks by black bears are defensive reactions to a person who is too close, which is an easy situation to avoid.

Oh my, how men dislike that answer. But the numbers, in this instance, are very much not lying. Men are more dangerous. And as many women have pointed out in response, a bear will kill you but a man will do much worse. And a bear doesn't want to hurt you. The bear is reacting for its own safety. Men do want to hurt you.

Another viral moment is women dancing to messages on their phones left by an ex. There's something so satisfying to see a woman moving her body freely and with joy as man after man says 'you're crazy', 'this is why no one will ever love you', 'you're a ho and I hate you and why won't you talk to me?'

Then, on top of all this, we have The Tortured Poet's Department, the double album release by Taylor Swift. I do not consider myself a Swiftie but I think this woman is a talented songwriter and I love intelligent writing. Her album is so good. 31 songs makes it hard to listen to often but there's always another lyrical moment that happens and makes you stop. Stop and feel.

One of the things I sincerely believe about TS is that she really is exactly who she says she is. She's easily hurt, she's soft hearted and she never forgets a slight. She's 100% real. So while the crazies in the red hats try to vilify her, she's a relatable human woman that we can all get behind.

By the way: there's a women's day of protest on June 22. All female labor should cease on that day. It's another pink, pussy hat day. I feel like something like this will make those who protest feel empowered for a day but there will be no significant change. The protest needs to be bigger, last longer and have more involvement. 

Anyway, I have an hour left of work. I think I'm going to make myself a Caprese sandwich. I got the tomatoes and the mozz.

Stay safe out there ladies. And don't worry about the bears.

No More Boxes

 There are no more boxes in my home. All the furniture covers are washed and on the furniture. There is no more else to buy and my spending is now coming to a close and we are back to no buy.

I have a few more "chores" to do. Art needs to be back up but I'm having a problem deciding where I want it. And my kitchen needs a little more organization. I have a few things that have no place to go but I want to keep them.

Interesting tidbit: for the last 2 years I've been living in pajama pants and t-shirts. So comfortable. And since I work from home, it just makes sense. But recently I've been eschewing the pajama pants and wearing real pants again.

I don't know why.

Another tidbit: my cat Wednesday Addams (who is a biter) is slowly transitioning to cuddling. She sleeps against me and I've started giving her kisses and she's tolerating them. I doubt she'll ever stop biting but it's nice to see sweetness from her.

I sent 7 boxes of girl scout cookies to my office with a note and only one coworker said thank you. Kind of done doing that.

I'm trying to train my brain to not linger on family issues. When I start to ruminate, I'm trying to distract myself. This old dog is going to learn new tricks.

And Mollie and I are watching Avatar; the Airbender, the original cartoon and it's awesome. I'm completely invested. Team Zuko all the way.

Labour (2)

 As the conversations circle: the women saying they are no longer willing to do the 'silent labor' in marriage anymore and the men getting into their feels and lashing out with insults, there are still so many conversations we aren't having. So many layers to the work women do and the complete disdain for it.

Last night in the darkness of my bedroom, I was thinking about my recent estrangement from my siblings and was having a hard time making it all make sense. I had headphones on and had my favorite playlist going, I call it Ladies and it's about 90 minutes of women inspiring, raging, being okay alone. And then the song Labour played (check it out on the post previous to this one) and I cried. Because that's where it began between us all.

My mother was a troubled woman. And she didn't have healthy boundaries so there was a lot of drama with her. She liked having the emotional power to make her kids cry, to make us ask forgiveness. Most likely it was due to her lack of power in everything in her life but it was a fucked up way to raise children. And as adults, my siblings stepped away from her.

I was the only one there when she got sick. I was the only one taking her to appointments, picking her up when she fell. She totaled my car, she went to the ER almost on the daily and finally she went into care and she died. And I was the one who took care of it all.

I had a 4 year old child at the time, a full time job, a mortgage and childcare payments (I had adopted Mollie knowing my mother would provide childcare until she was school age). I was fucked. And both my siblings were fine. They were financially stable, in stable relationships, no children in home. 

I did the labor of caring for my mother. And caring for my child. Then when we moved to Hawaii, I shared the labor with my sister-in-law of caring for her husband, her mother with dementia and even caring for her (when she went through her cancer journey, when she was bedridden from a fall). 

And I finally understood how much work I've been doing all my life. How much my family has used my labor and never shown appreciation. How, when I needed them, they never provided.

I think of the labor of being an abused child. It isn't on the abuser to shoulder the blame and guilt given to the child. In my case, having a pedophile father means that other girls (you know, friends of mine and my sister) were in the sphere of my father's grasp. And yes, I carry the guilt of what he did to those other girls. It isn't mine to carry but there was no one else to take the load.

The labor of a lifetime to carry the emotional burdens of both my parents. To shoulder blame and responsibility for them. To be judged for my struggles and yet not acknowledged for how my struggling benefit my siblings.

My shoulders are so fucking heavy. I feel it in every part of me. 

LABOUR

LABOUR by Paris Paloma

Why are you hanging on so tight
To the rope that I'm hanging from?
Off this island, this was an escape plan (this was an escape plan)
Carefully timed it, so let me go
And dive into the waves below

Who tends the orchards? Who fixes up the gables?
Emotional torture from the head of your high table
Who fetches the water from the rocky mountain spring?
And walk back down again to feel your words and their sharp sting
And I'm getting fucking tired

The capillaries in my eyes are bursting
If our love died, would that be the worst thing?
For somebody I thought was my saviour
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour

The calloused skin on my hands is cracking
If our love ended, would that be a bad thing?
And the silence haunts our bed chamber
You make me do too much labour
You make me do too much labour

Apologies from my tongue, and never yours
Busy lapping from flowing cup and stabbing with your fork
I know you're a smart man (I know you're a smart man), and weaponise
The false incompetence, it's dominance under a guise

If we had a daughter, I'd watch and could not save her
The emotional torture, from the head of your high table
She'd do what you taught her, she'd meet the same cruel fate
So now I've gotta run, so I can undo this mistake
At least I've gotta try

Nymph then a virgin, nurse then a servant
Just an appendage, live to attend him
So that he never lifts a finger
24∕7, baby machine
So he can live out his picket fence dreams
It's not an act of love if you make her
You make me do too much labour

All day, every day, therapist, mother, maid
Nymph then virgin, nurse and a servant
Just an appendage, live to attend him
So that he never lifts a finger
24∕7, baby machine
So he can live out his picket fence dreams
It's not an act of love if you make her
You make me do too much labour

The capillaries in my eyes (all day, every day)
Are bursting (therapist, mother, maid)
If our love died (nymph then virgin)
Would that be the worst thing? (Nurse then a servant)
For somebody (just an appendage)
I thought was my saviour (live to attend him)
You sure make me do (so that)
A whole lot of labour (he never lifts a finger)

The calloused skin on my hands (24∕7)
Is cracking (baby machine)
If our love ends (so he can live out)
Would that be a bad thing? (His picket fence dreams)
And the silence (it's not an act of love)
Haunts our bed chamber (if you make her)
You make me do too much labour

Sunday Bed Rotting

 

This is the cloud coffee table. It's trendy. Very trendy. Expensive (mostly). It made me go 😍 the first time I saw it. And the second time and all the rest of the times. I don't know why but I love it in ways I've never loved a piece of furniture before.

It's not inexpensive so I've longed from afar and saved a few pennies. When the apartment move didn't happen I took the money I had put aside for the movers to buy the table. I have ordered it twice. The first time they refunded the money right after I ordered and said it was out of stock. Then they placed it back for sale but $100 more. Yesterday I found it on Walmart. $150 less than the first one I attempted to buy. So let's see what happens.

This is my No-Buy 2024, remember? I've honestly done well not buying things. But after the-move-that-wasn't I sat with myself and asked what was it about moving that had me so excited? More than laundry access and parking right outside my door. And the answer was: the fantasy of perfection. 

Every time I imagined the new apartment I saw a kitchen that had what I needed. I saw matching curtains in the living room and the art was thoughtfully laid out. I had a specific space for my witch things and it was light and happy.

I hope I'm aware enough to understand that perfection is not a plan. But taking all the pictures down and really curating the space can be. So I gave myself permission to buy what I really felt I needed that's been lacking in my space. Kitchen knives, a spice shelf, towels. It hasn't been a lot but it's been a joy.

In other news: work is a walking disaster area. Doc is still hiring people without vetting them at all and then watching them leave after a moment or two. They're not curating the time off schedule so we have an entire week of patients not getting their weekly wound appointments because the only people able to do it are off on the same week.

My drug abusing neighbor is starting to make a routine of knocking on my door early Saturday morning to ask for drugs (I have pain pills for my knees which I take as directed: I don't have any other drugs and I told her my pills are for my pain, not for anyone's recreational purposes.) Anyway, I don't answer my door when I'm still in bed and I don't intend to play with her drama so it's going to come down to it soon. (Story time: after I had gone to the ER after my fall, she showed up to ask what pain meds they gave me. I told her none because I'm on a pain contract and I don't do drugs, I do pain control. All she heard was that I had Norco and she wanted it. Funny thing: my dosage is really small. She's also on pain med drugs and her dosage is much higher than mine. My drugs won't give her a buzz at all.)

Today is Sunday and there are still a few projects to do but I'm doing nothing today. I've been getting things done and last night was so achy and done in that I decided even if I had all the energy in the world, this body of mine is getting a break. 

Willa if you read this: where did you go for vacation? Do you still have a blog? Please share the link.