"So what can I do for you?"


"A layered bob." I have no idea what that means, but 6/10 times it gets me a hair cut I don't want to attack with pinking shears.


"Okay, we'll do a little texturizing--"


"BY ALL THAT'S HOLY DON'T TOUCH THOSE WEIRD SCISSORS!"


"Okay, okay--touch-ee! How do you propose I thin your hair out?"


"Layers."


"Are you sure?"


"Lots of layers. Do NOT massacre my hair with those things."


"Fine. Layers aren't going to do it."


"They have in the past."


"How about if I buzz cut your back and--"


"Oh God."


"And do a little stacking here--"

"Please God, not the iron throne in the back--"


"And wings! All girls love wings!"


"Please, for the love of God could you layer the front?"


"Layer how--bangs?"


"THAT'S NOT LAYERING."


"You know, you're being awfully picky for someone who didn't know what they wanted."


"A layered bob."


"I don't think you know what that is."


"Well four out of ten hair stylists hear those words and do what I ask."


"What did they do differently?"


"More than one layer in the back of my head, and a flirty little layer in the front."


"That's not really a haircut."


"It was if you grew up in the 80's."


"No, seriously, this will look better."


"Fuck it. I don't care. I don't have to look at me. Whatever."


"Sure. This'll be great. Your hair will take forever to grow out in the back and it will live in your eyes during the heart of summer. You'll love it."


"Fine."


"No, seriously, a little blowdrying, some curling, some product--"


"Look, I know we just met but do you see anything about me that would suggest that's going to happen?"


"Well you don't live in a cave."


"Not by choice."


"Seriously--what do you think?"


"Please tell me you sell scrunchies."


"Yes."


"Then it's fine."


"But--"


"No, seriously, all fifty-somethings like to put their hair up in that little pixy thing 2 year olds do when they don't have enough hair."


"But if you don't like it--"


"If you touch those texturizing scissors I'll stab you with them."


"Who hurt you?"


"PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW HOW TO LAYER!"


"Fine, tip?"


"20% okay?"


"And this is why we don't layer."
​

"Keep the change."

 I sang my pain into the ether
Disgusted by my whine
My troubles are so tiny
Not worth sorry, not worth time
Tell your troubles to the river
The river carries on
People have their own loads
It's important to keep calm
But I had a moment's weakness
(Let's face it--there's been more)
And I made my pain a banner
For a friend to see--or two, or four
Or more and more or more
And I hid my face against my pillow
Embarrassed by my pain
For the trifling of my sorrow
And vowed not to sing again.
But I sang my pain into the ether
And my friends didn't think I whined
I'd forgotten that in sorrow
True friends--the best of friends--are never less than kind.


So all--thank you, to everybody who said a kind word to me after last night's blog. EVERYBODY. Everybody. I'm more hopeful today--and I thank all of you for your kindness and the hope you leant to me when mine was behind the drier.
Thank you.
​

 Knees ache. Fingers ache. Today I could actually hear my crepitus  echo. And we all know what happened in the Supreme Court. Fuckers. So Mate is pulling me out of my chair because I can't make it without help at the moment, and he says, "This is the last time for the night, right?"


And at that moment my knee gives a giant pop.


And I start to cry.


"I'm useless. I'm so stupid. So stupid. I never should have gotten this fat. If I wasn't this fat my knees wouldn't be crumbling so bad."


"You'e not stupid."


"I'm disposable. Ask the Republicans. I'm too old to be an EZ Bake anymore--absolutely worthless. I have a uterus which satisfies their one requirement for being a woman but it doesn't function, anymore. Women's healthcare is a sin. You could throw me in a trash can but there's not one big enough."


"I'm not throwing you away."


"If we lived in a red state you could just shoot me and let my body fall into the trash truck. It would be fine."


"No. Nobody's getting thrown away."


"Progressives want to--they're great at finding reasons someone isn't good enough to join their club. They throw people away like tissue--there is no other side of the story."


"Well, those are Twitter people. They're like Sicarians (sic) in Guardians of the Galaxy. They're like paper people. In real life you could kick their asses with no knees."


"In real life I couldn't kick their asses when I had knees."


"Well, you've always been a pacifist."


"True. Even when it meant getting my ass kicked."


"And you always got up again."


*sniffles * "I just need more help right now."


"I'll help. I swear I won't throw you away."


*more sniffles* "Even though I'm stupid enough to get fat?"


"Swear."
​

"Good."

 So yes, I know Sunday was Easter, and we had a lovely one. Family at my mom's house--we all brought something. It was also her birthday, so pretty much, the only thing she had to cook was a veggie tray--woohoo!  It was funny--I'd had my sister signed up for dessert of some sort, but that morning my mom's best friend showed up at her door at eight in the morning with a cake she'd just "thrown together" that was so gorgeous it made me cry. Also, its as as good as it looked--and that doesn't always happen!

And the kids got candy and clothes--pretty much the standard Easter basket in our house. There was also much sleeping in and recovering, which everybody had to do because Saturday was also special--but once in a lifetime (we hope) special and that takes it out of you!

Saturday was my oldest son's--Big T's--engagement party.

And it was lovely. The kids had it at a beer and sandwich place with a covered patio, and the bride's brother brought fancy cupcakes from where he worked, and there was pizza and happy conversation and a general appreciation for two young people whom, I think it was concluded, were really really loved. 

I stood up to give a toast--I think the entire family sort of bowed it over to me, it was weird. I remembered when Big T was eight years old and he stood and greeted people to his birthday party. He smiled and told them where to put the presents and thanked them for coming and was, in general, the perfectly good host. As I was watching the kids (Okay-- they're 28 and 29!) greet their guests and be fun and excited and generally super awesome adults getting ready to enter a new stage of super awesome adulthood, I had the thought that they were perfect for each other. 

So that's what I said for my toast (except better, cause I write sometimes.)
Anyway--for their engagement present they got wedding crocs.

Yes, I know, classy. 

But you have to understand.

Chicken got two pairs of crocs and loved them--so she bought a pair for her grandparents for Christmas. I was getting tired of wrecking my feet while cooking because I hated wearing shoes in the house, so I thought, "Hey, I should get a pair of those!" The first pair was too small, and it was sitting on the floor while I tried to muster up the enthusiasm to trade them in, when ZoomBoy walked in, put them on, and said, "Thank you Mom!" and flip-crocced out of the room. The next pair I got DID fit me, and Squish saw me and ZoomBoy wearing our crocs and said, "Uhm... why didn't I get a pair?"

So that's four of us. Wearing crocs.

We wore them to the movies, where we were meeting Big T and Beautiful A to see a show, and A said, "Hey--your whole family is wearing those. How funny!"

And I'd been banging my head against a wall to think of something I could give them besides just gift certificates to someplace practical to make it easier to pay for the wedding.

And I went,  "Aha!" And then I decorated the crap out of them--glitter tulle, champagne jibblitz, pink bows for hers, black bows for his--Wedding crocs.

They were adorable. Also, I got Beautiful A the fuzzy ones, because that's some nice shit there.So we had a big weekend--and my kids were happy. And my dad and stepmom were happy.

And Mate and I were happy.

And that doesn't happen as often as it could, so Happy Easter everybody. 
​
May we all get our moments of chocolate, ham, and pretty sunny picnics on a Sunday afternoon.

 We've all seen the memes--Jim Carrey typing madly at the computer, looking possessed. The cat, paws flying, putting in that order for never-ending catnip. The old-style author, with the pipe and the whiskey and the old S-electric typewriter. Even the odd Shakespeare or Byron, with fingers stained with oak gall ink from the carved quill nub.

When people envision a writer at work, they envision some sort of industry. After all, writers are constantly whining about how hard it all is--shouldn't it at least look like we're working?

There's a word in this trade... fairly important... *snaps arthritic sausage fingers* What is it? Oh yeah.

Irony.

Ironically enough, some of the most productive moments writers have happen when it looks like they're doing something completely different. Here are ten things that it looks like I'm doing when I am, in fact, writing.
#10--Wandering around the house, talking to myself. My husband used to ask if I was yelling at him--or the kids--in my  mind when he saw me having an obviously intense conversation with someone who wasn't in front of me. "Nope," I'd say. "I'm writing." He was usually very relieved.

#9--Doing the laundry. A. It's so boring it feels like I should be doing something else productive while I'm doing it, and B. See Item #10. Wandering around the house with a laundry basket is a perfect opportunity in which to talk to one's self. True fax. 

#8--Doing the dishes. Yes, you may be sensing a theme here about housework. Before I make my list more than ten items I may as well add vacuuming, sweeping, and cooking to the list. But not organizing--organizing actually uses brain power for me, and I can't organize my house to clean it if I'm trying to have multiple conversations simultaneously in my head. Which is probably why my house is an epic disaster zone. 

#7--Walking the dogs. Yes, much of the time I'm listening to an audiobook or music, but there are times when I shut all that off because my brain is too busy. The fun thing about this one is that even though it's basically the same thing as wandering around and talking to myself, it doesn't look like it because there are dogs. Because there are dogs, it looks like exercise. Win/win.

#6--Taking a shower. I mean, we've all washed that shit before, right? And this way nobody can see that you're actually engaged in #10. It's like a little cubicle with relaxing warm water and good smells, all designed to send you to other planets where you can have intense conversations with the people in your head.

#5--Applying hand cream. Extra points if it's some sort of liniment for arthritic sausage fingers, because then it looks like self care, when it's really a chance to sit at my desk and talk to myself--although usually a fill-in-the-gap measure, for little sentences to get you to the next big exciting part.

#4--Cleaning the desk. Seriously--have you seen my house? Why would my desk be even close to clean if there wasn't some sort of underlying writing need behind all of that organization and dusting. Also, it helps to get the cat dander out from between the keyboard letters so it's not so hard to push down on them with my arthritic sausage fingers.

#3--Staring into space. This is really just wandering around the house talking to myself but sitting flat on my ass with my mouth closed.

#2--Getting a snack. Write write write! Pause, stare into space, put on some hand cream... transitional phrase! Now on to the next part but first... I need cheesy-poofs. Get up, get cheesy-poofs, and by the time I'm back, with a little detour to refresh my fizzy water and ice, I have the next exciting part ready to type out. See? It only looks like cheesy-poofs and no willpower, but in reality it's actually part of a much grander scheme.

#1--Napping. Or resting my eyes. Or, you know, staring into space with my eyes closed while imaginary people have conversations in my head about what they're going to do next in my book. You know. Writing but without the keyboard.

Yeah--I only wish I looked like the Jim Carrey gif when I was writing. Looking at this list, there is absolutely nothing to distinguish me from the everyday sort of chubby lunatic in a dusty hoarder house full of yarn... except the book at the end.
​

Omg--I'm surprised I haven't told you all this already.

We cured the dog.

Okay--she wasn't sick, but I'm telling you, hauling that barking pack of Chi-who-whats through the park or through the neighborhood was starting to really wear at me. And we were the most hated dogs at the park. I mean, THE most hated dogs at the park. The lady with the boxer still curses our name whenever she sees us.

And then one day, I remembered the purple squirt bottle.

It's not much--small, meant for hair, fits in the hand. I bought it for this specific purpose, but I kept forgetting it and never used it and then, one day, I remembered it.

I swear, It took three squirts, maybe four, and suddenly...

We went from a rabid clatter of furry house demons to a... well, they're still the Chihuahua mafia, and they're still trying to carry out a hit on me and make my death look like an accident, BUT they haven't enlisted anymore homeowners or park walkers into their nefarious scheme.

In short? 

They all shut the hell up.

I'm boggled. 

I'm baffled.

I'm...

ELATED. 
Oh my God. Walking at the park is a joy again. I'm so happy. 

I haven't abused it, either. In fact, today I FORGOT IT. But it didn't matter. Literally a couple of squirts and Ginger and Carl have just remembered to shut the hell up.

It's blissful.

For the record? Geoffie? 

Has not. 

She thinks the water is just a happy little break from routine. Looks around, smiles, keeps on barking. But she still runs toward friends and rolls over to her back and exposes her stomach. I mean, Geoffie.

So there you go. A miracle. They're rare, but very satisfying.

And as for the whatnot?

I'm currently teaching my Crafting Category series in two places--one live, through the local junior college outreach, and one online, through the Paranormal Romance Guild. It's been a while since I gave classes--I'm sort of tickled. I gave my first live one in about two years, today, and they were super appreciative. I was so happy!

So, miracles and whatnot. 
​
You can't count on them, but they sure are nice when they happen.

​

So, uhm, recently I made a FB post about the analgesics I've been using to help me through the mother of all arthritis flares, and I have to admit--the CBD liniment has been a blessing. I'm not sure if it's the magic pot infusion or just the icy-hot coolness but it does have a certain immediate soothing quality--a quality of doing something for which I'm very grateful, particularly after I've been knitting in front of the television and then sit down to write. I mean there has been no "magic pill" so far-- Instaflex, Ibuprofen, analgesic cream, aqua aerobics, and sometimes, honestly, sitting an activity out or shortening my walk in lieu of the aqua have all gone into helping me to manage a situation that escalated more quickly than I anticipated.


But yeah. The cream helped.


Until today, when I learned a valuable lesson.


I scooped out a bit much and was rubbing it into my hands, particularly around the knuckles, and I remembered my elbow joints were getting inflamed so I decided to put some there. Where the pain was. But first I did that thing women do when we're using moisturizer. You know, that thing where we rub the moisturizer into every bit of skin between point A and point B?


Forgetting, of course, that the skin on the backs of my arms is not in pain, and it's not inflamed and it is, in fact, quite tender...


And within a minute it was awash in the icy-hot flames of liniment vengeance as I tried to decide which sensation I hated most--the pain that was hindering my afternoon writing or the mentholyptic inferno that my skin had become.


I finally decided to just go nap. I could cover my arms with blankets to stop the icy-hot from enveloping my dermis and I could tuck my hands under my chin so the heat could ease up on the hand pain.


And I could resolve, ever so heartily, never to do that again.


When I awoke, the skin on my arms was back to normal--but so were my swollen joints. 
​

*sigh* I'm really learning to count my blessings.

So, I don't know if I will ever talk about the thing.

I remember reading an essay of the Yarn Harlot's once--something had happened in her family that she didn't want to share--but she wanted to share the after-effect, which was simply, that for about two weeks, she was so heartbroken she couldn't even knit. There had been no death in the family, which she would have felt able to talk about, but that didn't mean there had been no grief. The essay detailed her and her husband going to the grocery store together because neither of them could think clearly enough for only one of them to go. "Our hearts were broken, that is all you need to know."
​
I'm going with that approach.  Start with last Tuesday, the 10th, and our hearts were broken--and go from there. In the last two weeks there have been trips and visits and meetings to deal with what happened that day. There has been an attempt to fix the breaking, to achieve equilibrium, to ensure against further breakage. There has been suppressed anger (we're white people who eat our feelings--no cookie is safe)  and suppressed grief and mental and emotional exhaustion.

And a trip to the doctor's on my part that netted blood pressure medication and gel for my arthritis which is moderate--not mild--and currently kicking my ass. In the middle of all of the above vague posting, I couldn't walk for three days because my knee was threatening to go bone on bone. 

Ou.

Ch.

And in the middle of that, someone backed into my car at the grocery store.

And I don't know how to explain my stress levels this week except to say that the fender bender came up in conversation on Sunday night and the whole family was like, "What? Wait, what? You didn't even mention--wait--what?"


And I was like, "How important is the mildly munched door seam really?"

And the whole fam went, "Oh. Yeah. See your point."

I'm aware that none of this came out on social media, btw, not even the small things, or the arthritis or the medication or any of that shit, because it was SO SMALL in relation to the other thing that I didn't feel like I could talk about one without talking about the other because it was unbearably private. And NOT talking about something often make it even more stressful... like I said. No cookie was safe.

Which brings me to today.

Two packages arrived today. 

One had two skeins of absolutely stunning yarn which has, I think, been discontinued. Last Tuesday I started a project using this yarn having only one skein of it, and I realized that the skein wasn't going to create a shawl of the size I wanted so I found some at a small vendor and ordered it. 

The other package was a giant box of Girl Scout Cookies.  Four packages of Samoas at the least, Tagalongs, Lemon cookies... it was all there.

Mate didn't even bat an eyelash. 

"After last week, my stress buying amounted to two skeins of yarn and 10 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies. That's really not bad," I said.

"Nope." 

And then we both went back to trying to work. After he demolished a package of Samoas.
​
And for a moment, we're okay--the only cookies at risk have arrived by post, and really, they weren't long for this world anyway.

​

Ugh! Where to start, where to start, where to start...
It feels like all of my anecdotes have been told until they're ready to shrivel up and float away.  I'm going to start with one that happened when I was in about eight grade.
My dad worked nights, and there was sort of a revolving paperback library where he worked, and sometimes he'd bring the books home. He brought one home and put it on top of the refrigerator. I was five-foot-six at the time--not my actual adult height, but definitely big enough to figure out the top of the refrigerator--and I pulled it down because, hey! Book! Right?
Oh no... you mustn't read that book. That book was a mistake. Dad shouldn't have brought that home.
Oh. Okay. I had some Tolkien, some Piers Anthony, some Lloyd Alexander--who needed whatever the hell that was, right?
Until my stepmom told me to burn it. 
I was appalled, but she was like, "It's a super shitty book--and we don't need it floating around the house and the library won't take it. Just burn it with the rest of the burn barrel.
I was a good kid--I mean I tried to be a good kid. So I took it out to the burn barrel and threw the other stuff in and, well, sort of flipped through the book while I was burning everything else.
As an adult who writes adult books with sex in them, I will tell you right now that this one was the grossest sort of trash. I've read porn that left me a lot hotter and not nearly as soiled as this book. Racist, grossly pornographic, four-big-black-guys-in-an-anal-gangbang-without-lube sort of trash. 
Yes, I remember the scene almost verbatim. 
I, uhm, hadn't known a penis could go there until that very moment. 
I threw the book into the fire, feeling a little nauseous, and watched it burn, the edges turning black and curling, the center turning to a glowing furnace of pulp wood and glue.
It was the first time I got why people might want to burn books. I couldn't seem to shake those words. They'd burned themselves into my brain.
They followed me. Every sex scene I read as a young adult was compared to that one. Every time two people kissed or had a breakup scene or someone did something "beyond the pale" in a book I read, I'd remember that scene.
When I wrote books and love scenes, I endeavored with all my soul to not make a scene that would leave people feeling the way that shitty book left me feeling.
And here's the thing. All of that could have been avoided if my stepmom, whom I trusted, had merely said, "It's not the sex--it's the fact that the sex is demeaning to everyone involved. It gave me the oogies--I just don't want you to feel that way." 
But no--I burned it. And in spite of seriously how bad the book was now I'm stuck with it burned in my mind.
So.
My feelings on the big book banning thing that's sweeping the South.
First of all, to the hysterical and ignorant parents driving this because you're afraid your precious straight white child is going to learn something you know nothing about: you filthy cowards. These aren't books that are trying to demean people, or trying to titillate them--they're trying to inform people on the diversity of American experience. Does this book make you feel bad as a white person? Well maybe try not to be such a shitty white person. Do LGBTQ folk scare you? Well maybe inform yourself about them by reading some of their voices and see that they are just people like you. Well, maybe not "you" as in the ignorant filthy racist extremists who think burning ALL THE BOOKS is a good idea. But they are people with compassion and fear and empathy, so they are people BETTER than "you" and I bet that's super scary too, right?
Read a book and get over it.
And second of all, you children aren't going to not read these books.
I guarantee your children will read these books. I read a tweet that said, "In sixth grade there was one copy of Forever that got passed around to every kid in the class." Yes. That. There was one copy of Forever, and one of Deenie, and if your parents bought you science fiction, you'd get to read Anne McCaffrey with gay couples and pregnancy surrogacy and "proddy green dragons" and there are a thousand authors out there that will write a book your children will get their greedy little hands on and they will learn, and they will learn things that scare you and you will disagree with, and there's not a thing you can do to stop it from happening. 
So there.
Just remember, people like you are the ones who took your children to see ParaNorman because it was an "animated children's film" and after watching 95% of a film dedicated to showing people why witch-hunts were bad got all bent out of shape when the hunky male teenager told Norman's sister that she'd like his boyfriend and they should all totally hang out. I'll never forget those ragey letters to the editor btw. "I just wanted to watch a wholesome movie about how we're all different and there were GAY characters in it! How DARE they?"
They dared because film and literature are always trying to break the barriers that keep humans trapped in their own hearts. That's what film and literature do. And it's scary.
It must be scary, or you idiots wouldn't be trying to ban that from happening--but just because it scares you doesn't mean it's wrong.
Now let's go back to that book I burned. The one I remember. The one that, as an adult, I can't believe was actually published and distributed. I was fired for giving a student a book, and nothing in my book was anywhere as gross as this book, that any kid could get in a library.
But frankly, most kids wouldn't.
Most kids would be reading Forever or Go Ask Alice or What About the Haynes Girl? or any of the books that covered real life problems and resonated with teenagers and expanded their world.
Kids don't like reading trash--and they know the difference. They know what engages their hearts. They know what expands their world. They know what literature is. 
And I'll tell you something--if the grossest sort of trash had such a profound effect (even if it was by negative example) on my psyche because my mother made me burn it, imagine--simply imagine--what effect Maus or any of the other banned books that idiots are freaking out about--will do when kids get their hands on them. And they will get their hands on them.  They'll have Banned Book Clubs. They'll send each other smuggled .pdfs. They'll write their own fan fiction if they have to--but they will break out of the bonds imposed upon them by teeny tiny fragile minds.
Banning books is reprehensible. It's ignorant. It's a sign of a fascist government and a fascist population.
But nothing--and I mean nothing--will ensure the next generation will be more open minded, more liberal, more ready to change the world than telling teenagers what they can and can not learn. 
A book--bad or good--is so much more powerful if it is scary enough to ban.
And the people banning them--"Oh help! I'm such a fragile white person I don't want my kid to read Michelle Obama's biography because my kid might learn class and education and we want to stay proudly trashy, thank you!"-- will never, ever, ever understand.