Warning--dark humor alert! If you don't take this post with a heavy dose of salt, you will be really worried about me, and seriously--I'm fine.


 Also--I'll write one of these posts about what's coming in earnest on my Patreon soon, complete with links and pub dates--this one is mostly for fun!


We had a birthday party for Chicken this week, which everybody made a big deal about since she didn't really let us do anything for her when she graduated. Because she wanted to be comfy and cozy, we ended up with thirteen people in our teeny tiny living room, eating Chinese food and having riotous conversation. This included my parents, who rarely if ever come to my house because I'm pretty sure the mess--and the deterioration--makes them absolutely batshit crazy.


So when my dad excused himself to use the bathroom, Mate and I braced ourselves.


He returned trying not to look appalled.


"Was that a... uhm... hole in the floor under that mats?"


"Well, yeah--I mean, it's not through the sub flooring yet, but, uhm, yeah."


He made a manly attempt not to flail. "Aren't you afraid of falling through that?"


"Yes," I said. "Mate is fully aware it's a possibility."


"Have you thought about getting that fixed?"


Only every day for the last twelve years. "Of course we have," I say. "I offer to call in contractors, and Mate says he'll absolutely do it after soccer season."


My dad looks at Mate, who has a stoic look on his face--he's known this has been coming and he was fully prepared to get thrown under the bus. "So what happened?"


"Soccer season is from August to July," I tell him, and he looks from my face to Mate's to see if I'm joking.


As you all know, I am not.


"So what do you plan to do?"


"Well," I say, "One day, while Mate is at a soccer game, I'm going to fall through the flooring and bleed out, alone in my own home, up to my waist in dry-rot, with my phone mere inches away from my reaching hand."


My father is horrified. "That's a plan?"


"Sure."


And the conversation gets coopted by somebody else.


Later, Youngest wants to know what the conversation was about, so I tell him. "Wow, Mom--you sure do have a lot of plans for how you're going to go out. Face down on your keyboard working a deadline, falling through the bathroom floor--and the dogs have been trying to kill you for years. Shouldn't you plan on life?"


"I do plan on life! But this way, I have fun guessing what's going to get me first--the fat, the dogs, or the bathroom floor."


"Just try to make sure Dad's the one who finds you."


"Roger that."
​

Seriously, my money's on face first on the keyboard, but that's just me. 

So Weirdos came out this week, and people really seem to love it! I'm so glad--my dogs take up a big percentage of my day and it's nice to know that love too is universal.


So far the only criticism has been... well, predictable, really--it's one I'm used to and always makes me smile a little.  


I dared to mention gas and poop.


Yes, I know--it's not every book (I SWEAR it's not every book) but it does come up . Part of that is I grew up with a stepbrother who used to sit on our heads and fart in lieu of beating us up and part of that is my family used to sing "Beans beans the musical fruit! The more you eat the more you toot!" every time my stepmom cooked beans. However, aside from being prepped from the cradle for having the sense of humor of a perpetual twelve-year-old, there's another reason I dare to mention bodily functions in romance books.


We are human animals.


I believe in love--all the good stuff people say about it, I believe. I believe that finding your person can be a fundamental part of your life, if that's how you want to live. (Not for everybody if that's a choice--I believe that too.) I believe love, kindness, forgiveness, all those good things that people can do, bring us a little closer to being part of the divine, whichever form that takes. Sometimes it just means kind humans are the pinnacle of evolution, right?


But all of that love and divinity and angelic kindness is attached to a very real, very fallible, very human body, and sometimes it works to perfection (hello, orgasm!) and sometimes it betrays us (Arthur Itis, I'm glaring at YOU!) and very often, it produces unpleasant byproducts such as gas, waste, and ammonia-tainted water.


And still, we love. 


Mate and I went honeymooning on a shoestring. We got camping equipment, some cash, and headed for the coast in a 1976 AMC Pacer for two weeks of roughing it bliss. On the third day, I got food poisoning. On the fourth day, we changed locations so we could visit my stepbrother and got a flat tire on the way. We spent half our limited cash buying a new set of tires so we might not wreck and die on the coastal roads for the rest of the trip. When we arrived at my stepbrother's, he treated us to pizza. Food poisoning again--this time both of us, and we spent the night in adjoining portajohns. The next morning--day five--we called it. We'd seen sickness and health, better and worse, richer and poorer--we were going home.


You'd think that would be a bad omen for a 35 year and counting relationship, wouldn't you. That much pain, misery, and penury would break us--right?


But on that third day, as I was crouching behind a giant tree stump in an empty campground, after having just lost everything--both exits, no waiting--into the powdery dirt, Mate was running around in front of the tree stump asking me what I needed. 


A teleportation machine and a giant bathtub, obvs, but none of that was in the dusty campground.


"Water," I wailed. "And all the towels. And a change of clothes. And some help to the shower." And then the capper. "AND YOU CAN'T LOOK AT ME WHILE YOU GIVE THEM TO ME."


The one thing that has not changed about my Mate in 35 years is his eyes. I remember those blue eyes--a little bloodshot because he really didn't like camping and sleeping outdoors didn't come easy--peering at me from over the stump. "I have to look at you sometime. We're married."


"But I'm SO GROSSSSSSSS!!!!"


"Which is why you need to shower. Here, take off your clothes and put them in this bag, and here's the towel and the shampoo. The bathroom's right over there." 


"I was heading there," I sniffled.


"You didn't make it. You go get clean and I'll try to..." He gestured with the water bottle in his hand. "Clean the mess."


And as I did what he instructed, it occurred to me that A. I was glad we'd lived together for a year because otherwise, I might have expired from embarrassment on the spot, and B. This was how you got through the worst of things, wasn't it. You did the logical thing. The next thing. And you held hands and went on from there.


A week and a half ago I brought COVID home from Houston and shared with Mate and Squish. One of the signs that we all might live--including Mate and I--is that we spent a good five minutes hugging in the kitchen this morning. Human touch--ah, that glorious, magical, amazing healing element--finally made its way through the misery of the headache, the exhaustion, and the stupid coughing fits that have wracked us all. 


Love and the human animal aren't always a comfortable fit. But one of the first ways of helping that along is to accept that one of the most divine emotions springs from one of the grossest and most animal of places: our bodies.


Which the long explanation of why my characters often laugh at fart jokes, and sometimes mention poop.

I'm leaving for Book Lover's Con tomorrow, and one of the forever weird things about jumping on a big jet plane to go somewhere new is the day before. It's always a combination of regular ol' Tuesday and OMG I HAVE TO GET ON A PLANE TOMORROW. So when something odd happens in the course of regular ol' Tuesday, it sticks with you.


There we were, Bob and I. Bob is my walking buddy--he's got a dog named Dude who is sort of my spirit Chiweenie. Dude and I have the same look when someone wants us to do that extra lap around the park, if you know what I mean. -.- THAT look. Anyway, we were wrapping up our walk and I was telling him about hating airport shuttles with a passion. I usually have a story to pull out of my... ear, and I found myself talking about getting off the red-eye, running to catch the shuttle, and ending up in traffic because President Obama was going through New York that day and almost fainting before I got to the hotel because NO FOOD.


I was saying this as we wrapped up our walk--we went the extra half-lap today to avoid the ecstatic Rottweiler chasing the sprinklers because sprinkler day is the BEST DAY EVER, so we were skirting the parking lot as we neared my car. (Bob takes the thruway into the nearby neighborhood--this, people, is how all suburbs should be built. With a GIANT FRICKIN' PARK in the middle.) Anyway--about the time I got to, "Yeah, Obama was in town that day," somebody heard us.


The guy was scrawny and tattooed and working on a beater car with a million dents, and normally that's my candy, but apparently this candy was batshit crazy. He picked up on the word "Obama" and was off and running about how Obama was the reason the country was currently spiraling into the end times and we were all assholes for voting for him and... you get the picture.


Now, Bob is a Never Trumper--a Republican, but actually very pro-choice, pro-civil rights, pro LGBTQ--he's about 10 years older than I am, and I think the Republicans were just the people who helped you make money back in the day, and he liked to play the stock market. What matters here is he thought Obama did a decent job, and this batshit crazy vehicular resident was NOT speaking for him or anybody he knows. 


We met eyes you could read the mutual decision. Do not, repeat, do NOT engage with the psychopath screaming about how Obama caused the gas prices to go up and that's why he was doing drugs in a Subaru in the park. (I mean, seriously. He was TWO PRESIDENTS ago!) 


So we made polite conversation until we got to my car and then I made to leave and he said, "See you next week. Have fun." He gave the Tattooed Screamer a sideways look. "Don't talk to crazy people."


And sometimes, that's the best advice a friend can give.
​

Have a good week everybody!

 Okay--true story-I forget a lot about my blog. I think my last post was a month ago--all those things I used to need to shout from the mountaintops are perfectly content fermenting in my twisted little heart, silent as the grave.

But I DO need to remember to post about new releases.

I did a HUGE breakdown of the Fishiverse HERE, back when Constantly Cotton was released, and people really seemed to enjoy being walked through the connections and byways of the evolution of Fish. Fish in a Barrel has some of those byways cooked in--Henry (of Fish on a Bicycle and Shades of Henry) has become a steady fixture, as have the Flophouse boys and Henry's boss (and Ellery's best friend) Galen. Ace, Sonny, and Burton didn't get any play in this one, although they do show up in the backmatter because I wrote a lot of ficlets in the last two years. 

And I really love the idea of Ace, Sonny, Burton, Jason, Jai, Ernie, and George all hanging out in the desert and keeping the peace. Just a little gay coalition for peace--nothing to see here folks, make sure you check your antifreeze before you drive your car through the desert.

But Fish in a Barrel is Jackson and Ellery at their most pure--pursuing a case for the greater good and applying compassion and common sense to a justice system badly in need of both. We get so used to reading about injustice, vanity, stupidity and cruelty masquerading as politics--writing these stories is my way of fixing at least a tiny bit of what's wrong with the world.

So I hope you enjoy the Fishiverse--and I especially hope you love Fish in a Barrel. 

If I'm lucky, I'll get to write these guys for the rest of my career. If I'm not lucky, I'll keep writing them for myself. 

Jackson and Ellery face their toughest case yet—against the criminal justice system itself.


Jackson Rivers and Ellery Cramer have worked difficult jobs before, but usually it’s getting the facts that’s the problem. For their newest client, the trouble isn’t finding the truth—it’s corruption at the highest levels of the justice system. It isn’t enough to find the actual perpetrator and unveil a heartless plot—not when the DA is the bad guy and he’s using cops as his goons. Keeping their vulnerable client alive and out of jail takes blood, sweat, and tears.


When one of their major antagonists is killed and the DA tries to pin the death on Jackson, he’ll need every ounce of luck and all his resources to clear his name—and to find the perpetrator before the DA can use the murder to further his own agenda. They soon find that it’s easier to spot an honest man in a field of thieves than it is to shoot fish in a barrel—and both the man and the fish will be lucky to survive….
​

 I'm so angry.
Every woman in America should be this angry--but some of you aren't and now I'm pissed at you.

I mostly blog for myself these days--I don't use it for an advertising platform much, and my kids have gotten to the point where their oddness and absurdity can be captured in a brief FB post. They also loathe having their pictures taken, so, you know. Blogs aren't quite the medium. But right now I'm mad, and I'm trying to write and this anger keeps getting in the way and I need to get it out. I can't HAPPY EVER AFTER right now, when my inside keeps churning with HOW FUCKING DARE THEY. 

When I was a kid growing up in the Nor-Cal bible belt, my parents may have been liberal, but abortion was wrong. All my friends said so. But then, you know, you grow up, and people start going, "Yeah, except for rape. It should be legal then. Or incest. I mean, when the woman has no choice--it's not her fault." And then you think, "Well, what about people who are really young--fifteen is too young to have a baby--there should be something about that in there." Or, "What if she doesn't have the means? It sucked growing up poor, but my parents had access to a brighter day--what if you can't have that brighter day with a kid at your heels?" Or, "Well, also if her health is at risk. Definitely if her health is at risk." Or even, horribly, "And definitely if the baby is dead or brain dead--it would be HORRIFYING to have to walk around with a rotting corpse inside your body while you tried to grieve."

And then it occurred to me. I was maybe fourteen. "Well, who gets to make these decisions? If a woman is too young, too broke, too old, too sick, too much of mess, too non-consenting to have a child, who gets to say? Does she have to go in front of a panel of old white guys and spill out her entire life's story to explain why she doesn't need to have this baby right now? Seriously, who the fuck are they to judge this hypothetical woman?"

Who the fuck are they?

Who the fuck was I? 

And like that, I realized why my parents had protested the government. 

Fast forward a reproductive lifetime to when I was thirty-eight. Mate and I, in a fit of miscalculation absolutely laughable in two college educated parents of three, find ourselves pregnant. AGAIN. Holy shit! It took us nine years to get pregnant with Thing 3, and suddenly, two years later, we're pregnant with Thing 4? We ASSUMED we'd have another nine years, and in that time, well, we'd close down the baby factory because we have plans for our late fifties and they mostly include us being able to go places without our children. But pregnant with Thing 4 we were--and make no mistake. We were THRILLED. We had no place to put this baby--but we'd figure it out. We both had jobs. We were resourceful. And Jesus, the house was already a fucking madhouse.

But it was not all baby glow and universe juice.

I was THIRTY-FUCKING-EIGHT years old. This is vastly different than twenty-five in baby-pushing years. I was exhausted. Everything hurt. Thing 3 was not talking yet, Things 1 and 2 were in Junior High and boy wasn't THAT a treat, my job SUCKED, my administration had already proved they hated pregnant women and wanted to kill them with fire, and I was SO FUCKING FAT. (I did not yet know how much fatter I could become. Youth is wasted on the young.) My blood sugar was circling the drain, and I'd developed ulcerative colitis. (All the Itis brothers suck btw--Col Itis, Arthur Itis, Bruce Itis--the entire family is just the fucking worst.) It was HARD having this baby. And still I wanted it. 

I MADE A CHOICE TO HAVE THIS BABY. 

It was a choice of privilege--yes, I would have given my life to have the baby, but I was fortunate because my husband was not an abusive douchebag. I COULD give my life for the baby because I knew he would care for our other children if things went terribly, terribly wrong. 

The fact is, if I hadn't felt like my other three children were safe with him, I could not have, in good conscience, carried through with that pregnancy. 

But all those things--all those factors--were MINE. They weren't for anybody else to decide. Not my parents--who were terrified during the entire pregnancy--and certainly not my government's. 

Mine. 

And fuck anybody who tried to take that choice away from me.

Fuck them now. FUCK. THEM. How dare they. 

How dare they legislate our bodies like this. My body is MINE, shitty choices, destroyed metabolism, all the fucking Itis brothers and all. It's the only body I know how to use. I feel INVADED by this Supreme Court decision, like suddenly all of my choices are under scrutiny, as though I have to appeal to that intimidating panel of judgy fucking assholes for everything from my pap smear to my mammogram. And I'm not even of reproductive age anymore. How do my children feel? They are growing up in a world where their only choice requires cash expenditures for a Kevlar vest. And, yes, fuck you SCOTUS for that choice too?

But the idiotic fucking gun law repeals are wholesale slaughter--and for better or worse, that feels less personal than this. The Roe V Wade involves the creepy wrinkled fingers of Mitch McConnel and Neil Gorsuch and Clarence Thomas and Brett Kavanaugh and Ted Cruz and Marco Rubio and the Big Liar himself all crawling around my body, my privates, my womb. They're oozing along my children's bodies, their choices, their sexuality, their personhood, and they've all aimed the Uzi at my head to stop me from protecting my babies.

The overturning of Roe V. Wade is that evil. It's that pernicious. It's that GROSS.  And I don't have any answers besides vote and donate and shake my chubby fist at the sky and howl.

Dear conservative SCOTUS members--  Fuck you. Fuck you all. How dare you. Eat shit and die. Fuck yourselves with an anchor. Choke on your own vomit. I hope demons rip your bladders out through your urethras and shove them up your noses. I hope your faces fall off with syphilis and all your cronies laugh and judge you while pushing their oozing wrinkly wizened fingers up your assholes and squeeze your shriveled wieners. 

I just want you all to know how WE feel.
​
Sincerely, women everywhere. 
The end.

So I'm currently putting together a class that I'm teaching next Wednesday--it's beginning knitting and crocheting, and one of the enrollees wrote to ask what project I'm teaching first, and my response was, "A rectangle. I'm teaching people how to choose materials and make a rectangle. And if their first rectangle is successful, I can teach them how to read a pattern and make a different rectangle--or even a triangle. But first, we start with material choices and what I've learned by doing."


And as I outline this class, I'm thinking of the projects I want to present, and how they're often not perfect, but I learned something from each one. And also how even the imperfect ones usually get used to death and loved.


And while I was outlining the course, I stumbled upon the idea of Fuckcesses and Sailures. 


A Fuckcess is a project that actually turns out--shape is perfect, stitches are perfect, it's everything it was planned to be, but due to material choices or stitch choices the item is really never going to be used. About fifteen years ago, a friend of mine was doing a takedown of Vogue Knitting, and she tore a designer a whole new asshole because of a backless knit dress designed in bulky 100% alpaca wool. As it turns out, the wool company was sort of the hidden bad guy here--as I recall, they told the designer what they wanted and she did her best, but the reason this was a "dress for fuckcess" item rested in the material and item choice. Bulky weight alpaca is lovely stuff--but it has serious drape and zero elasticity. Either it would be written to standard gauge or even a little below and droop so badly that nipples and other things would just pop right through the stitching (remember, it was backless so a bra SHOULDN'T be necessary) or it would be knit so tight that it would hang like a garage door. Also, knitted dresses are often a bad idea if the material choices don't account for the sag in the skirt. As in, it could give a size zero model an ass like a dump truck. I have a shawl of bulky weight alpaca--I love it, but as a form-fitting garment? No. 


And a  capper, I believe the entire garment was done with popcorn stitches, which looked like giant growths in the giant fluffy yarn.


Oh--and if it was cold enough to wear an alpaca dress, leaving the shoulders bare would result in some serious frostbite.


But the dress was very pretty in the picture. That my friends, is a Fuck-cess.


We've all had them. 


I, for instance, have a poncho I made for Mate using super thick kitchen cotton. Looks good. Fits great. Is not warm AT ALL and weighs roughly 300 pounds.


I also have (and this is ready to be presented for the class) this sweater I made chicken. It's bulky weight wool, and to my eyes, it's SOOPER pretty. And the unusual construction worked. The wool itself was a little drapey--I thought a little bit of light felting would make it hang together more, and I was right! It's a little felted, and it's tight, and while it was super big on Chicken then, it comes much closer to fitting now. 



It would be a fine, FINE article of clothing in Toronto, say, or Alaska. Some place where they have snow six months out of the year. 


As opposed to our part of California which is slowly sinking into oblivion because of drought and climate change.


Yeah. This sweater is a FUCKCESS. Did everything I wanted it to and nothing I needed it for. Ta-da!


So that's one side of the coin.


The other side of the coin is much less likely to be seen in knitting magazines. The standard Sailure is something that may have a structural deficit--or several of them. It may have some poor color choices (aherm, in the eyes of everyone but the maker, mind you) and it may have a few missed stitches, but the item is useful, well used, and LOVED. One of my favorite stories of a Sailure is a qiviut shawl made by a woman in recovery. She and the other members of her recovery group became fascinated by the "magic" properties of qiviut yarn, and in spite of the fact that knitting was new to this person--she'd learned it to help her recovery process--and she didn't know how to block, and the shawl was therefore stumpy and short and needed a pin to stay around the neck or shoulders, this shawl was the magic talisman for women who were trying so desperately to live a better life. It was passed from member to member--one wore it when she got her thirty day chip, and then again at a year. Another wore it to her daughter's wedding, where she could only go if she promised to stay sober. 


I would say that this garment, in spite of its structural flaws and knitting errors, was an unqualified SUCCESS--or a Sailure. Any flaws in the construction or knitting sailed right by the wearer's notice, because the garment itself fulfilled its usefulness again and again and again.


Sailures do not get layouts in magazines. They're not often on the blogs of knitting designers or geniuses. But they are unequivocally loved. 


My own personal Sailures are many and documented, but most recently it's this Stevie Nicks inspired hooded cowl--an infinity scarf with a hood--that I made for my sister's birthday using some favorite yarn scraps. I love everything about this by the way, every scrap, every color choice--it just all came together.
 
As did the extra twist in the infinity portion of the scarf, giving it almost a knot as opposed to an infinity twist. 


Now, I'd keep this myself--I love me a good hooded scarf or shawl--but my sister was the first person to tell me, "You know, nobody but you has seen the picture--even the one in your head. What you may be freaking out as a design glitch might be a feature to somebody else."



So I'm writing this one down as a Sailure. And I'm pretty sure she'll wear it to death in the winter. It really is her jam.

And the reason it's important to know about Fuckcesses and Sailures is that it's important to remember why you're doing what you're doing. Some people can only function if everything is perfect--and sometimes I envy those people. But most of the time I'm aware that if I stressed about perfection I'd get nothing done--not knitting, not housework, not traveling. I could easily get obsessed with chumming the water with minutia and not ever see the ocean upon which I knit or write or float. If my bestie asks me for a sweater, I feel like I need to get her a sweater STAT--sometime in the next year. She's COLD, you understand. FREEZING. My yarn may be the only thing between her and certain death from exposure. A miscounted stitch or mildly imperfect seam doesn't matter when death is on the line! Pretty much everything I've given her--and there's been a lot--has been possessed of flaws. And while I see the flaws, she sees the garment and how warm it keeps her.


She sees SUCCESS, and I see SAILURE. 
​

And sometimes it's okay to just let the F in "failure" sail right by.

 "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. 
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May we all get our moments of chocolate, ham, and pretty sunny picnics on a Sunday afternoon.