Heat Waves

I am back on Song Titles as Blog Titles because movie titles don't do the trick. 🤷

Soooo, I have very clearly detailed all of my awful "dating-app first dates".

So many so, that I have had a few of you ask me if I am ok.

The answer to that is YES.

YES

Yes, yes, YES.

I didn't go on Tinder to find a husband, a boyfriend, or anything other than...

?

Plainly put, I went on Tinder to find a FWB that would not cause me to lose any more friends because it sucks to have to end friendships because too many lines were crossed.

Far better to make new friends with the express purpose of...benefits with no strings, yeah?

YAWL...In spite of all of my previous "swing and a miss" stories...

I hit the jackpot.

Like, CHING, CHING!!

Stacks on stacks

I know I have previously detailed my atrocious first dates and bad matches, and it makes for great comedy.

I like it when things are funny.

Funny takes feelings out of the equation.

I can do funny allllll day long.

Feelings?

NYET.

Not so much.

So, when I have a Tinder experience that is gorgeous and fun and alllllll the things everyone on Tinder that doesn't want to get married (NO MARRIAGE!, as gorgeous G once wrote me when I asked what his Tinder goals were-more on him next week), I don't want to share it because I am better talking about my disasters than my success.

However, "M" needs to be celebrated, just so you singletons can grok that - every once in a while - you can hit 'pay dirt' on a dating app.

I already disclosed that I quit Tinder and have 3 humans I still talk to.

2 of them are really fun to chat with and we talk about all sorts of wild, improbable things that will, most likely, have no bearing on any of our real lives.

The third..."M".

Oh, boy.

Tinder opened my eyes about a lot of things.

Everyone lies about their height, weight, and hair follicles.

Everyone eats ass.  (I know, I know...*CRINGE*)  This has to be said, though, because it comes up alllllll the time and is part of the reason I dipped out on that app.

Like, WHAT????

Also, everyone is ENM.

ENM.

I learned that phrase in December.

It means, "Ethically Non-Monogamous".

To me, in my rather adventurous 20's, that just meant sleeping with anyone you fancied and calling it 'just for fun'.

Or, "I like that you bleached your hair so you look like a Wal-Mart Eminem, so Imma bone you but also never call you again."

These dudes are the same when wearing beer goggles. JS.

Nowadays, it means that you have multiple relationships that have nothing to do with the others, but it is done very respectfully in terms of emotions, safety, and boundaries.

I ignored all ENM people until, in March of this year, then I met 2 people that interested me to the point that I swiped the good way, in spite of the ENM tag.

Guy 1 was adorable, sweet, and funny.  Unfortunately, he bore such an uncanny resemblance to the love of my life, that I had to explain my problem and delete him.  I mean...If I can't have my LD, why would I ever settle for a pale imitation?  Nope!

Guy 2 was "M".  Gorgeous, funny, sardonic, and actually used the word 'sapiosexual' in his profile.

LIKE, SWIPE ALLLLL THE CORRECT DIRECTIONS FOREVER!!

We messaged and then texted and talked and talked.

We decided to meet on a Wednesday at 7.  After a very adorable day-of-the-month mix-up, of course, because I can't have nice fucking things - right? - we met up.

It was one of the first gorgeous Springtime PNW evenings.  Sunset, soft air, birds, etc.

We meet at the cutest bar in NoPo.

There was banter, and laughing, and pool, and craft cocktails.  

Hot bartender that recommended the best pizza anyone ate in April 2021, and she was hyper-vigilant about masks, so I wanted to marry her in spite of my not being a lesbian.

ANYway...

There was kissing and hand-holding and some earlobe interaction...  I mean, that kind of thing can happen to anyone, anywhere, yeah?

Also, there was an epic goodbye kiss that lasted for about 200 years - or 20 minutes - they can sometimes feel the same.

Literally the best first date with a stranger that anyone ever had on the planet.

Like, I got home and IMMEDIATELY messaged him. 

 I never do that.

Not because I play it cool...as if!!  Have you even met me??

Simply because I just don't ever do all the things that make dating NOT awkward if given the chance.

In fact...

The opposite.

However...this time?

I went to bed buzzy and kind of goofy, and I made sure he knew about it.  He was super appropriate and - dare I say it? - sweet and very into the whole vibe.

It was quite swoony to be honest.

There is no way I can caption this without making it a cringe-fest, so let's just not say a f*cking thing.  The sentiment was real AF tho!

Like, SWOON, swoony.

Work happened, life happened, and then we decided to meet on another Wednesday at 7:00 a few weeks later.

Second verse, same as the first.

Kisses, laughing, hand-holding, and allllllll the talking and laughing and kissing and just having the best second date ever.

At this point, I am kind of wondering when the other shoe is going to drop..

Like,  I could meet this dude at NoPo bars and kiss him on patios and have drinks and burgers and fries and pizza forever and never even try to do any single thing besides those things forever and it would be great.

Until...

I mean, it's ME, so you know it just doesn't go that smoothly, DUH!!!

Date #3.  Another Wednesday at 7.

PNW Spring night.  Kissing, hand-holding, walking, talking...Listening to French music al fresco.

Lots of talking.

Like, allllllll the talking.

We get on a subject that makes me SUPER sad and also uncomfortable.

Like, SO UNCOMFORTABLE.

I sort of  try to convey my discomfort without taking up too much space because I always try to do that when I feel weird.  Like, I get as small as possible.

I make a joke that allows the uncomfortable talk to continue..  Like, I was being sarcastic, but the tone wasn't right, so it sounded like I wanted the convo to continue...

Finally, after misreading each other's tone and body language for about 10 minutes,  I...

Welll...

I left.

He was being a gentleman and walked me outside.

Not knowing that I had locked the door behind me.

I LOCKED HIM OUT OF HIS OWN HOUSE.

This is not a bad first date story, people.

We are on date THREE and I locked dude out of his own house at 9:00 at night.

CRINGE WITH ME, PLEASE!!

Anyway, owing to a well-placed unlocked window, he got into his house and I got home without spontaneously combusting with shame - it was a very near thing  -and we had a conversation and all was well and we decided we would hang out as soon as I got home from my EPIC ROAD TRIP (tomorrow), so all was good and he even fielded a very drunk phone call while I was on my trip with admirable aplomb.  [I am not unaware of the length of that sentence. If you have ever heard me talk, you get it.]

When I got home, we talked a bit, but something came up on my end, so Date #4 on a Wednesday at 7 was postponed -- I mean, like, is that even surprising??

So Date #4 is Monday.

How do I feel about this?

Like, this dude makes me allllllllllllll kinds of swoony.

He is funny, well-read, articulate, definitely not trying to push past my boundaries.

I don't have time or space for a dude in my life.

He doesn't have time or space for a Mary in his life.

Like, this is perfect, yeah?

Annnnd, now I am so effing nervous about this next date that I can't even think about what I am wearing or how I am going to act or anything.

Like, he isn't my boyfriend, he is just my new friend.

We aren't exclusive, rather we are very inclusive of his person and any person that I choose as my person.  And I very definitely have 2 persons in the queue.

Like, he isn't some rando I met at a bar or a sporting event (hello, COVID!) or a hot but inappropriate Uber driver - ya'll won't EVER get that one out of me!

This is a real human that I have real feelings about that has a real partner that is not me and I am supposed to be super blasé about all of this and just keep moving forward because this is what we do, right?  I mean, I am fine with all of it, but I am also feeling very weird about the fact that I am fine with that.

ANYWAY, this was supposed to be a story about how Tinder isn't total trash, about how you can actually get exactly what you are looking for if you release all interest in outcomes, about how sometimes the most random interactions can turn out to be so not-random, but I think I got sidetracked.

I do that.

A lot.

Story of my life, and exactly how I ended up right here.

Okay, so not EVERYTHING we want, but close enough!

50 First Dates

 Sooooo...

I have been using song titles as blog titles this year.

I'm switching to movie titles now.

50 first dates???

Naw, man.

KILL ME NOW IF YOU THINK I COULD STOMACH 50 TINDER DATES!!

I feel like the girl in this picture is trying to find ways to make things more awkward.  Or maybe that's just  me.

I just decided I am the Worst First Date Ever.

Like, I already talked about how shitty Tinder people are for lying and using old pics and being bald - not that there is anything wrong with that - or saying raccoons are gross.

But, nevertheless, I persisted...

And it was still almost utter shit.

So, I retired from Tinder.

I've retired from online dating forever, actually.  I mean, I wasn't even trying to date in the first place, but I managed to make my life super weird anyway.  So that's it.  Towel thrown in.  White flag waved.

Here is how my "dates" - although I prefer to call them 'meetings' - have gone in the last month:

#1.  Dude is hot AF.

-Homicide, with an actual corpse.

-Day drinking.

-Jameson.

-Public intoxication.

-Nudity.

-Attempted fornication.

#2. Dude is an artist.

-Also a retired porn actor.

-Literally asked to say "Daddy".

-Penis was offered to me as a "porn star dick".

-There was an anaconda..

-A goodbye pat on the leg accidentally turned into a ball-smack, so there was some human doubled over in pain as I, literally,  ran for my car.

#3. Funny, smart, educated, package of YUM.

-Pastoral, cinematic location with cows(!!) and a sunset, at a place called "Raccoon Point"

-Ticks.

-I cannot stress this enough...TICKS.

-I HAD 3 TICKS ON MY BODY THIS WEEK!!

-Like, pulled a tick off the back of my neck, grabbed one that was STROLLING DOWN MY FACE, and found another in my hair.  TICKS.

-I literally had to message him after on Insta and be, like, 'Yo, check yourself for ticks, man'

-Also, there were no raccoons.

If you name a place "Raccoon Point", I expect to see this when I get there.

I have officially retired from Tinder, ya'll.

FUCKING DONE.

Like, I didn't even call these 'meetings' "dates", but...

I'm SO done with online dating!  I am SERIOUSLY destined to be a spinster and that weird Aunt that shows up at birthday parties and weddings with her Greek pool boy in tow with way too much eyeliner and an inappropriately short skirt.

I am fine with that.

Like, I love The Odyssey, and I can get you a Green Card, so let's get shit poppin', Demitrious!

I am currently still talking to 4 dudes off Tinder, and I think that's enough right now.

3 I have met in person.  1 of whom is the best first meeting/date anyone had in the history of ever (he deserves his own entire blog post, so I won't mention him here when I am talking about train wrecks!)

1 I'm supposed to meet up with after my Epic Road Trip; I am sure I will find a way to make that awkward AF, and I am looking forward to the aftermath almost more than the actual meeting. 

0 are liars, fake, or not down to start a Raccoon Army.

But my Tinder profile is gone forever and I am sooooooo happy about it.

So, even though I feel like my Tinder experiment was mostly shit, I might have got exactly what I was looking for.

Which is absolutely nothing because the world is trash and we're all gonna die.

Also, this.

I'm just going to stay home and look at pictures of this guy forever.

Shut Up And Kiss Me

 “Since the invention of the kiss there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind. The End.” — The Princess Bride

Kisses are powerful things, ya'll.

In the Disney version of fairy tales, it is a kiss that wakes the princess.

Breaks the spell.  

Turns the frog into a Prince. 

I'm not a big fan of that narrative.  (I'm more partial to Mulan; steal a sword, run away to join the army and kick some a$$?  Sign me UP!)  Personally, I have never felt the need to be rescued, repaired, or restored by a man.  

Ravished?  Yes.  Redeemed?  Naw, fam.  TF am I, a coupon?

Although...there is one Disney kissing scene that I consider to be iconic, magical, sweet, and stirring; all things that a really good kiss should be.

*squeeeeee!*

The real power in a really good kiss is that it does change you; even if it is just temporary. Kissing releases all kinds of luscious feel-good brain chemicals that boost your mood, reduces anxiety, encourages pair bonding, and even lowers your blood pressure.  

Kissing lowers your cortisol levels, which decreases your stress and can even boost your self esteem.  

Kissing is just one of the best, most fun things you can do with your clothes on. 

Pro tip: it is a perfectly acceptable thing to kiss with your clothes off.  In fact, I encourage it.

 But I digress.

Romantic kissing isn't even a thing in some cultures, which I find odd.  Like, they just never invented it?  Before you get on my case about judging other cultures through the scratched and distorted lens of my white privilege, please shut up.  What I mean is, that kissing is pretty fucking awesome and I feel like everyone on the planet - besides my teenage offspring - deserves to be kissed like this at least once in their lifetime.  

Or 250 times. I'm not tied to a number in regards to this matter,
 besides the higher the better, obvs.

With all due respect to the 10% of the world's population that doesn't kiss romantically but instead rubs arms or noses or slaps your hand over their face, um....  I forgot where I was going with that.  Ya'll can carry on not locking lips, I guess.  Have fun with that.

Kissing has a bunch of weird statistics attached to it, including the fact that the average person spends about 14 days of their life kissing.  Frankly, I find that hard to believe.  14 DAYS??

THAT'S IT?!?!

What are you people doing with your time that you are only kissing a total of 2 weeks in an entire lifetime?  Crossword puzzles???  Napping?  Writing rambling and bizarre blogposts for your contingent of Russian bots??

Like, I know for a fact that in 1995 I kissed someone's entire face off his head over the course of a weekend.  Like, I am fairly certain we didn’t eat, hydrate, or even talk.  And there were several weekends that year.

8

I think when my decrepit 84-year-old self finally dips out of this particular level of “existence”, that I will have spent at least 6 months of my life kissing.  I mean, I have been fairly conservative lately (more on that in a mo), but I fully intend to be the geriatric Jezebel of Shady Pines Retirement home.

14 days just seems a little low to me, guys.  We should all do our part to bring that number up, don’t you think?

Regarding conservative me...

The other day, as I was researching this post the not-fun way -- Googling instead of actual kissing – I realized that I have kissed more boys this calendar year during a global fucking pandemic with a disease that is certain to kill me than I have in the last 3 years combined.  Don’t all rush to judgement and expect me to start wearing a scarlet H, though.  Like I said, I have been rather conservative for a few years so both of those numbers can be counted on one hand.  But it was a weird thought all the same.  Like, who kisses more than one person in a year when an extremely communicable disease that will end in certain death for oneself is raging through the populace unchecked? 

Me, ya’ll.  Me.

Final fun fact about ‘frenching’.  Kissing burns calories.  Vigorous (can we just take a moment to appreciate that word, ya’ll?  I fucking love it!) kissing can burn up to 2 calories per minute.  This was very good information to come across at this particular time in my life, because I really need to lose 10 pounds in the next 2 weeks before the Epic Road Trip begins. 

Sooooo, if my calculations – i.e., Google – are correct, I need to spend 5.5 of the next 14 days kissing.  Vigorously. 

I am not going to argue with this; science is real, yo.

 

Rhett Butler spittin' facts!

Send In The Clowns

 

Tinder. 

Tinder, Tinder, TINDER.

I have been wanting to write about this all month but did not quite know how to go about it since I am still in the thick of it.

 

I was messaging someone on Tinder yesterday and told him my profile was turned off more than it was turned on.

Um…

Yeah, you cannot even call that a metaphor.

 

I have been WAY more turned off by Tinder than I have been turned on.

 

Here are things about Tinder that are true:

 

1.  Dudes want to move the conversation to Messenger, Kik, Insta, text, or any other platform so they can ask for nudes. I do not get this.  Not one little bit.  There is a whole wide internet out there and there is Pornhub, so WHY do you want some middle-aged tap dancing mom to send you nudes??  Also, when she refuses them, why do you call her names?

 

Case Study:  66. Literally the most gorgeous human on the planet.  Hilarious, Red Sox fan, smart, well-read, literally the only forearms I want to put my hands on ever again.  We go to texts, I vow nudes are not a thing,

Nudes come up in every convo.

Now, I am totally enamored with his brain and his forearms and his ears, so I keep talking to him through all of this until we have this epic battle that goes like this:

I mean...

 

 

I had enough and now we do not talk.  And I can't even be super sad about it in spite of the - literally - most gorgeous, hilarious, super funny Red Sox fan anyone ever met, because it was so off-putting.

2.       Dudes use old pictures.  I do not get this either.  Like, I get that some chicks use filters to blur their flaws and look much younger and thinner and with thicker eyelashes.  That is trash, my dudes, and I totally understand that.  My pics are blurry because my camera sucks, but I promise you can see every wrinkle, all my fat, my chipmunk cheeks, and all of my insomnia-induced undereye bags…. So, I do not understand why most Tinder dudes use pictures that are at least 10 years old, then get mad when connections do not work out in person – YOU LITERALLY ARE NOT THAT PERSON TODAY, DUDE!

 

Case Study: M.  M matched me and I was not super ok with it because he was super adorable and looked younger than my Eldest, but he was hot af so...  *shrugs, tosses moral reservations out the window*

Anyway, he was hilarious, articulate, smart, engaged in current events, so we talked all day every day for 2 weeks.

As things went on and we moved to text (where he immediately asked for nudes and sent me pics of his junk and his face), it became clear that his profile pictures were older than my 14 year old.

So, I asked about it, like, BRO you know your pics look nothing like you look today, yeah?

GHOSTED.

 

 

3.       Guys on Tinder lie about their height.

OOOF.  Fellas, why do you do this??  I am 5’3”.  So, if you tell me you are 5’10”, and I show up wearing 4-inch heeled boots and I can see your bald spot??  Um….  I do not get this.  At my height, I am hardly able to judge you based on your height.  Why not just be clear from the start?

This happened to me on 2 different occasions, and I was super annoyed.  Not at the shortness, but at the deception.

 

Case Study.  D. 

I meet D at Starbucks in Downtown Vancouver.  We get drinks and walk to the Waterfront, neither of us voicing the obvious – my jaw is on the same level as the top of his head.  I suggest we sit on a bench at the Pier.  I expect him to address it, but NOPE.  So, we talk and walk around and when we say goodbye, I pat him on the head,

Guess who unmatched me before I got home?

 

4.       Guys on Tinder lie about being bald.  This is just ludicrous, Bald is fantastic.  Like, who does not love a slap-head??  I know I do.

 

Case Study.  Chuck.  His name was not Chuck or even Charles, but Chuck is what Peppermint Patty calls her bald friend, so I am all in. 

Chuck wore hats – Red Sox hats, so YUM – in all his Tinder pics.  Thought nothing of it.  We meet for coffee and go walking.

I am wearing a wig to cover my blue mohawk, Chuck is wearing a Red Sox cap over his bald head.

It gets windy.

Since I was totally honest about my hair, I whipped my wig off, fluffed it out, adjusted the straps, and replaced it.

He said he liked the color of my mohawk and asked why I covered it up.  I let him know the whole sordid tale.

The wind blew Chuck’s hat off and exposed him in all his Telly Savalas glory.  Instead of taking the piss, he skulks around and gets all quiet.

Later, as we are messaging as a post-mortem, I ask him about the bald – is it organic or ornamental?

GHOSTED.

 

Guys, I am tired.

I got on Tinder to – this is where my Offspring, Nieces, Sisters, Religious friends etc. need to sign off – ummm…just have casual 'friends'.

So, ya'll, all of this subterfuge and obfuscation is exhausting.

 I literally thought the internet was a place I could go and safely find a FWB without too much drama or effort, but instead I am subject to all of your idiosyncrasies and ignominious behavior.

I object.

 

Why are ya’ll like this??

 

I will tell you that, as of this moment in time, I am talking to some absolutely fabulous humans that have made me laugh and laugh all weekend in spite of me having numerous COVID symptoms and being fearful of my imminent demise.

They are all completely different personalities, and they all get me in some kind of way, and it's super fun.

 

Thus far, I have not seen any evidence of the above issues, but we will see.

 

Fingers crossed, otherwise Imma stay home and look at this forever,

 

I Hope You Dance

8/30 on Day 13.

YA'LL!!  I am lagging!

Anyway, most of us in the #500WordsADay group are not entirely sticking to it, so I feel justified.

I started this month writing about my precious Anna-Boo, and I am going to address her again in my re-entry to the fray.

She tagged me in a FB post about her son Nick's 18th birthday and totally unraveled my heart.

I was in the room with her when that little human - big human now! - came into the world.

She was my Assistant Manager, my best friend, and my favorite face or arm to lick in pictures when I was drunk in the clubs in Portland in the early oughts.

Being in the room with her when she gave birth was an awesome honor, a super scary prospect, and a really intense experience.

I won't traumatize you by going into the horror stories that my insane family told me about their own childbirths, but there was apparently a lot of cursing, yelling, and refusing of marvelous things like epidurals.

48+ hours of excruciating pain and taking it out on nurses and doctors, blah, blah, blah, GROSS.

Fucking kill me.

My Anna did none of those things. 

She was, like, this super zen Madonna (not the performer, look that shit up) and the whole process was amazing, primal, and absolutely something that I pledged to avoid at all costs moving forward.

SWOON

Like, the Dr. brought out this HUGE mirror so she could see what was happening with Nick as he came into the world.

Meanwhile, I was cringing next to her hip, looking at her face so as not to see what was going on below the Mason-Dixon Line.

Soooo, my friend had a baby.  

I mean, she already had 2 children - Sassy Kels and Sunny Devin - but I wasn't in the room when they were born.  

I loved those kiddos as much as I loved their mom and little "Nit", which was what Devin called him at first, but we always are drawn to babies, aren't we?

(Not my 2 daughters, which is why the day I spent today watching Eldest's dog was the same as spending a day with a grandchild - more on this tomorrow!)

Anyway, I loved that baby.

"And she loved a little boy very, very much..."

I loved hanging out and watching American Idol and eating the amazing dinners John cooked for us, holding my boy, listening to Kels and Devin ramble on and on in little-kid talk.

That all ended when my Anna-Banana took her 3 babies and fled to Oz, leaving me with a severely dysfunctional cat named Bob, and I never saw them again until Facebook became a thing.

Friendships are a blessing.  

Like, you meet someone, make them your person, and refuse to let them go. 

Other friendships go away.  Like, they no longer serve either of you so you let go and move on and barely remember how you became friends in the first place.

This is not me and my Ann.

She lives in Australia.

I live in Vancouver, Washington.

We don't have a lot of mutual friends.

I haven't been in the same room as her in YEARS.

Our lives our so different.

Our hearts are the same.

Ran into each other on NW 23rd on a Sunday.  NBD.

She sends me Tiktoks alllllllllll the time, because she knows exactly what is going to make me laugh my face right off my head.

I write blogs about her, declaring my endless love for her to the point I am sure when I finally fly to Oz (thoroughly anesthetized on Chardonnay and - hopefully - with Samantha letting me break her hands during takeoffs), Shane will deny me entrance to their Huntsman-infested house and I will end up sleeping in my rental car in the driveway, or a tent that John lets me put in his refurbished front yard.

I am so glad we are still friends.

We will be friends forever.

One of my favorite movies, two of my favorite actresses, three times we finna roll up on Melbourne like...

Even though her childbirth was not enough for me to NOT get knocked up and produce another human - something even Jeff (fuckface) Bezos doesn't have enough money for me to repeat - I think she is the bees knees.

The cat's pajamas.

The top.

The Coliseum.

(I would say the Louvre Museum, but I think I might be liable to pay some royalties if I did, so I will say she is the National Dinosaur Museum in Canberra, which I hope to visit with her.)

Anyway, I say all of this to say that there is a newly-minted adult in this world who has no idea that I used to hold him in my arms and wrap his tiny, trusting baby hand around my finger while I looked at him and loved him and wished him all of the good things.

Happy 18th Birthday, Nick (Nit), I am still wishing you all those good things from 17 hours away.

Cheers.

The Longing Deep Down

So, am still 530 words behind if I get to 500 today.

I've written thousands of words today between writing on the Book, writing my financial narratives, emails, letters, etc.

Do any of you remember when "they" said we would be paperless and save allllll the trees?

 

I go through reams and reams of paper daily, weekly, and monthly despite all of the online and digital correspondence.

Do you ever think about the difference between how you thought life would be at a certain point and how it actually is?

 

The Digital Revolution was supposed to save trees, but our paperwork has expanded from 8 pages in 1995 to 56 in 2021.

 

Progress was supposed to give us more time, but the average housewife spends as much time cleaning her house today as she did in the 50s, despite gadgets and machines.

 

I wonder if "progress" is even a thing.

 

I will address this when I discuss "Civilized to Death" in my "Mary's Book Club" post on Thursday.

 

I am reading a book called The Book of Longings right now.

It is "historical fiction", which I loathe.  (The Other Boleyn Girl is a fucking travesty and should in no way ever be read by humans, like, Hank 8's story has been told so often we don't need some "Twilight" version of his disastrous marriage to AB)

I had a hard time getting into this book, but now I am hooked.

 

I don't think I am hooked because of the historical aspect.

I don't think I am hooked because of the (barf) romantic aspect of it.

I don't think I am hooked on the religious aspect of it.

 

I think the hook with this story is the idea of longings.

 

Like, who doesn't long for things?

 I long for things all day every day.

I long for sleep.

I long for a quiet mind because my fucking monkey brain never shuts up and I am always replaying actions, ideas, and events; as if thinking about them can change them.

 

I am full of longings for things I don't have.

Peace.

Quiet.

8 hours of sleep.

I am definitely full of longings.

I want my river.

I want my dog.

I want my LD.

So this book, with a frustrated writer that is full of longings is speaking to me right now.

 

You know what else is speaking to me?

You know what I want right this second?

 

I want biscuits and gravy.

I want mashed potatoes and turkey gravy.

I want to hug 66.

I want to put my tap shoes on and dance for another hour.

I want to finish the Book.

I want to go to Taco Tuesday with my friends and eat nachos and mozz sticks because Charlie's has the worst tacos - but the best pool tables - in town.

I want to play Cards Against Humanity with my friends in person.

I am filled with longings from dawn to dusk and I feel like this is not even a bad thing.

I feel like I should let them run and see where they take me.  

Especially that longing for biscuits and gravy.

I mean…am I wrong?

 

 

Speaking of longing...

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

A few things. I am now 1000 words behind. I could write 3 500-word posts tonight. I could write a 1500-word post, but since I am writing 500 words a day on my book every morning, I feel like that might be asking my little pea-brain for too much. I am going to try to write 750 words tonight and then 750 tomorrow morning (bit stuck on the book), and then 500 tomorrow night. That feels a bit ambitious to me, but here I go. 2020 was hard AF for all of us, and I definitely struggled, and it felt like music and writing were the only things that kept me sane. The good lord knows my youngest child drove me insane with her lackadaisical approach to distance learning and discussing her educational shortcomings with her teachers was a massive source of anxiety and frustration. I was so out of sorts in 2020, like all of us were, but December broke my heart. I went to Kelso to help my fabulous, darling KK out at her work. One day, I had a lady named Katherine call. Katherine wanted to know if there was an apartment available for her. There was not. So, I told her that in the most matter-of-fact, don't-call-me-I'll-call-you voice that I use when people call me at my own property. I do not let people call me to see where they are on our waitlist, I tell them to wait for me to call. Katherine did not take it well. It was December 21st, and she took a deep breath in my ear and her voice broke as she said, "Oh. Okay. We were hoping to have the kids out of the van for Christmas... Are you sure? I thought something was going to open up?" I was sure. I was also crying. Not terribly professional, but the office was closed to the public and Katherine did not hear any sound of the tears in my voice because I am one of the best actresses you will ever meet. "I guess I will call back next week?" she asked, somewhat tremulously. YES, PLEASE CALL BACK NEXT WEEK WHEN I AM NOT HERE!! When I out the phone in its cradle, I put my head on my arms and started crying. At work. Kids in the van at Christmas. Like, how is that a thing? Like a total fucking masochist, I found her file and checked out her sitch. Kids are 3 and 4. Just like my niece and nephew, 2 little humans that those of you that know me IRL know are my FAVORITES. I would do anything for those babies. Anything. The idea that those 2 tiny baby souls could have been born into a life where they spend Christmas in a van broke my heart. Like, BROKE it. I composed myself and went back to filing, nagging, fielding calls from disgruntled people. Then Kathryn called me. Not Katherine, Kathryn. Same name, different lady. Kathryn also wanted to know if she was going to get a roof over her head. I also had to tell her no. Kathryn did not mention children, thankfully. Because hearing about children that are hungry, cold, homeless and deprived just fucks with my head like you would not believe. Kathryn spared me that. Instead, she asked me if there was anywhere I knew of that gave out gas cards. She knew there was one church in town that did, but they were completely out and she had no idea where else to get one. I admitted that I was not tapped into resources in Cowlitz County, but I could totally hook her up in Clark County if she could drive there. "Yeah, we can't. We are saving gas to keep the car warm at night and so my husband can go look for work during the day. Driving down there would burn too much gas." I told Kathryn I didn't know of anywhere that had gas cards but assured her that if she came to CR before 5:00, there would be $30 under the doormat for her in an envelope. She started crying. I was already crying, so I just ended he call as quickly as I could and did the whole head-on-the-arms thing again. Then I put the cash in my purse into an envelope and stuck it under the door. Ummm.... Excuse the fuck out of me, but where do I even live? This is America?? Like, this is who the fuck we are right now? And do not EVEN throw some "bootstrap" bullshit at me. There are kids waking up on Christmas in a van. There are parents that worry about how to get enough gas to keep the car warm at night. This is some bullshit, ya'll. There is no excuse, no explanation, there is NOTHING that makes this ok. So, I cried all the way from Kelso to Battle Ground where I picked up my child and hugged my niece and nephew until they got mad. I took my offspring home, walked inside, watched her jump on the $XXX (not telling) gaming computer she got for her birthday, sat on my couch and started crying again. What good are tears, though? Tears don't help anyone. Tears didn't find those kids a home to wake up in on Christmas. Tears don't change policies or practices that create a system that disenfranchises people or allows people to fall through the cracks. Sadly, I got caught up in my own drama/trauma - more on that in another post - and I let the ball drop on my indignation and my vow to do something about this. Lately, though, it is all I have been thinking about and I am definitely picking that ball back up and starting some shit. Watch.