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Godzilla’s Arm

September 15, 2017

This thing pops up everywhere. I gasp, mistaking it for a cockroach even though it is dull, pebbly, and green while a cockroach is shiny, smooth, and brown. It makes no sense, really, but my mind rights quickly so it’s just a split moment. Split between the time when I know it is a cockroach and the time when it becomes, and stays, Godzilla’s Arm.

This morning it is on the shelf with the kids’ bath toys. It’s wedged under a ferry boat made out of recycled milk cartons. This morning it is only what it is.

I shower in natural light. I prefer the dark to artificial light. It used to drive me crazy when my mom insisted on turning down the light, but now I get it. It doesn’t take many hours under hot lights to make you sick of it.

My scalp hurts.

This happens when my hair grows beyond two inches. It’s only been less than that once. I was pain free for a few months. The trade off was that I looked like a fat, tightly packed qtip. Basically a tampon.

I’m growing it out now because looking like a tampon makes me feel bad about myself. I don’t think this is what my Mee Maw meant when she said “beauty hurts.” She meant heels.

My mom doesn’t know who Godzilla is. My dad and I used to watch it when it came on in the middle of the day. We ate spaghetti with butter and pepperoni pizza in the shape of a rectangle. We also watched The Sound of Music. It had an intermission. A movie on two tapes. So much about that my kids will never understand.

My son thinks Godzilla is a T-Rex.

My daughter is one. She doesn’t have thoughts about Godzilla.

This arm isn’t actually part of my son’s toy collection. It’s mine.

Knowing the story about me and my dad has lead Cyrus to get every Godzilla-ish toy or statue or gnome eating dinosaur he can find for me. I don’t actually remember the movie. And I don’t really have feeling about Godzilla, but I love the gifts. I really do.

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August

September 1, 2017

I’ve been a notebook keeper since forever, though what they look like tends to change. Lately I’ve been writing goals and intentions for the beginning of the month and doing a little recap at the end of the month. Yesterday I was looking at the goals I had set for August and felt pretty fucking terrible. I could have just gone down the list and written: nope. nope. nopenopenope. sort of. I wondered why I even bother with them. I was reminded when I got to the recap. We build raised beds (Eli got to use the drill!) and planted a vegetable garden. We had kids over who had the best time ever playing in our giant dirt mountain. I planted my dahlias (Finally!). Lots of playdates, time with friends, and time outside. Oh and… ELI WEANED!

I really should say that I weaned him. He would have kept nursing for the foreseeable future but I was DONE. D.O.N.E. It’s easy to lose sight of the fact that nursing is a relationship that needs to work for both parties. Because of my own childhood experience I really wanted my kids to be number 1, but that doesn’t mean I have to sacrifice myself. I’m not interested in being a martyr mama, thank you very much.

So. Yay! Happy September!

Ann Boroch is Dead

August 8, 2017

Ann Boroch is dead.

For those who don’t know: Ann was a naturopath whose claim to fame was that she “healed” herself from debilitating MS by following a special diet and program she designed. For the last 19 years she’s been healing others, not just those with MS, but people with all kinds of afflictions, from cancer to allergies. And me. Well, not really me. She didn’t heal me. I only saw her once. She stuck a thing on my head that told her computer that I had radiation poisoning and sold me a massive bag of loose tea that would sit in my cupboard for I don’t remember how many years and at least two house moves. The whole thing cost almost $500. Frankly, I was unimpressed, but that’s just me.

Loads of folks adore her and give her credit for their miraculous recoveries. Understandably, they are grieving and looking for answers. Her family posted that it was natural causes, which makes no sense considering her age and status as paragon of health. That statement was just asking for people to investigate, which is what they did. One man, Bryan somebody*, posted a link to the coroner’s report stating the cause of death as hanging. *A few hours after that post the entire page was shut down so I can’t go back and find his name.

Hanging.

Not a “natural cause”.

Before that it was grief and conspiracy. After, it was more conspiracy than grief. “Big Pharma” killed another one. There are lists of holistic practitioners who have supposedly died at the hands of “Big Pharma”- always capitalized- even if they died of (actual) natural causes. Her crime, I guess, was the spreading of misinf- sorry- information about the dangers of vaccines.*

I wish the family had conferred with a publicist or whatever profession deals with such announcements before going public. I wish the family hadn’t written “natural causes” when that wasn’t the case. But I can’t fault them, not really. What a shocking, horrible position to be in. My stepmother died suddenly last year and it was hard to figure out how and what to tell people. But then, she wasn’t a public figure.

Hanging: Violence. Horror.

That’s what it is to me.

And now, an uninterested party, I want to know what happened. I’m obsessed with knowing what happened. Did her disease come back and she couldn’t bare to admit her life’s work was wrong? Did she have previous issues with depression? Was it substance abuse? What was it? WHATWASIT??? 

You know what it most likely wasn’t? Big Pharma.

So can we please, please start with the truth and go from there?

Let’s talk depression. Let’s talk suicide prevention. Cool?

 

 

*Vaccines are generally safe unless you have an allergy or some other extenuating circumstance. Science is awesome.

 

 

 

Not Yet!

July 28, 2017

I fell asleep refreshing twitter last night and woke up wondering if my insurance would be ripped away. I turned on my computer.

Not yet, mutherfuckers! Not. Fucking. Yet.

I’d say you can have my insurance when you rip it from my cold dead hands, but that’s kind of the GOP’s point, isn’t it?

***

Regarding John McCain- what was that “wait for the show” thing? Was he just so bummed about everyone hating him that he needed to build suspense before his “no” vote? I guess he really needed to be princess for the day.

 

Apparently I post once a year now

July 27, 2017

Hi.

I’d like to say I’m back, but I don’t trust myself. I have a bad habit of bursting back with a flurry then radio silence for months and months, so I won’t say that.

I’ve been talking with a friend about a website that I want to do. Basically a site that encompasses all the things I love and could talk all day about, even though they don’t seem to go together. I started designing it and putting it together and I realized… it’s a blog. A better organized and better looking (than this one) blog.

So… cool. I guess maybe I should just start writing and sharing what I want, right?

October 11, 2016

I gave Eli a bath tonight. Cyrus was walking and talking with Welles. I hadn’t noticed that our new had indeed become normal nor that my awareness of how difficult this all can be was sort of hiding out in the background until that bath. It was so simple and easy. Eli played and we talked. I was very conscious of how much I miss him and our relationship. I miss the routines. I worry that it will never get better/easier now that we have two. I worry that we will never find a midline or a stasis to balance in or at least near. 

Logical me knows we will, but logical me doesn’t seem to be interacting with the rest of my mind. Maybe it’s mad at the rest of me for lack of sleep. Or maybe I just need to chill out and quit worrying so much. That’s easy to do, right?

Did I mention we’re all sick except Welles? 

We’re all sick except Welles. 

Long Beautiful Hay-Er

October 5, 2016

A note: I’m not proofreading this because then I’ll chicken out, deal with it.

I did something I have always wanted to do.

It was a Saturday afternoon and hot- asphalt melting hot. My scalp hurt from a perpetual ponytail. My sternum was tight with anxiety and all the other swirling happenings. We came home from the farmer’s market and cyrus and eli were settled on the couch together reading.

I don’t know what I said, but I know there was something, before I grabbed the lavender handled fabric shears from the box on the counter. I carried them the way I always carry scissors- sharp part in my palm, the plastic handles poking out by my thumb and toward the ceiling.

In the bathroom I leaned over the sink to make the first cut. I separated sections of hair haphazardly. I imitated what I’ve watched stylists do for 30 years. It wasn’t all that bad at first, I was careful. Then I started sweating. And I discovered that leaning over the sink did not stop me from getting hair all over my dress. So I started cutting chunks, as much hair at once as I could. I wanted to go until there was nothing left to grab, then I thought about my hair and all the times in my life when I believed it was the only attractive thing about me. I thought about the insistance of people close to me that I “must never cut [my] hair” and “must always be blond”. I’d been coming to this place for years.

The first act of rebellion was a drastic cut at the hands of an “unapproved” stylist. Then it was color. The darker the better, but not so dark as to be ugly. Bangs. I didn’t go so far as the pixie I wanted, but I kept changing, trying to find my(hair)self. (Once I did, my stylist stopped doing private clients, but that’s not particularly relevant, this would have happened anyway.)

Somewhere along the way I just quit. I lagged on my eyebrows and mustache. I wore the same rope sandals every day and never ever got a pedicure. My hair reverted to it’s natural color. The hippy dippy parts of me were stoked. The more central part of me, not so much. Really, this haircut was the final piece of an I’m-shit-and-deserve-nothing-nice-and-should-look-accordingly puzzle.

I stopped cutting.

I felt lighter and it was easier to breathe. I took a shower and reveled in the glory of washing manageable hair. Then I looked in the mirror and saw:

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I thought, maybe it’s not so bad.

Then it dried.

img_9548

Because it was a Saturday afternoon there was no getting an appointment to have it fixed over the following 2 days.

A blessed, wonderful, talented friend offered to come over and fix it when she got back in town Tuesday morning. Perfect!

Except that I was pushing a baby out of my vagina on Tuesday. So.

I’m stuck with my bad decision hair. And I need to put the pieces of myself back together. But something tells me the overhaul is going to involve a lot more than a hair appointment…to be continued.*

 

*Once I’ve got my shit together.*

 

*HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

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