While I'm Away...

Consider this...

Hi, guys.

So, as many of you know-and maybe, some who don't-I am currently in the throes of writing my first novel.

Yeah. Good times.

And while I am doing this, and as you have observed-I am not able to dedicate time to this here little blog. (insert audible Boo-awwww...sigh, here) 

But fear not, loyalists!

I have done a typically genius thing, and put out a call to action to all of my awesome writer friends who also dabble and may not have a blog of their own to speak of. To clarify, I'm not sure why they don't, because most of these folks are kick-ass writers themselves. And (what? I can be humble. Shutup, I can!) even better than me at the craft.

So, guest bloggers abound!

Our first guest is a local chef in my little city, and has an interest and all things cee-gar oriented. The art of enjoying a fine cigar may not be as poplar with my chicks out there, but to be honest...I think a little knowledge on the subject is a learning experience and also-might be popular reading for my lingering dude-readers.

So, enjoy the first guest blogger post and watch for many more to come, from a diverse and awesome field of experienced and fellow amateur writers.
This is going to be epic.

Watch for the first guest post today or tomorrow at the latest.
And, I will of course send some small updates about the novel as we go. I'm close to 285 pages now, with about 150-200 more to come before edits. And, oh yeah! I almost forgot...I am crowd-funding for the publishing costs. Anyone who wishes to donate, can do so...here: https://www.gofundme.com/publish-a-dream

Feel free to give, as a little as a buck or two will do cause' bucks add up. And if you cannot donate at this time, you are still amazing, and I love you to pieces. But, there is a way to still throw me an assist for free. Share the link on any social media, and with your rich -or any friends at all. ;)

Until then...

Get yo' guest on. Woot. 
Have fun!

Happy New Year. XOXO.

T

Not quite a boy...

...not yet a man.

Becoming a man.

I admit, as a woman...this is unfamiliar territory for me. I know a little about how to become a woman-(well, I am still grasping at the full concept of this, truly) Because, becoming a woman-is still a work in progress for most women, until...well, death.

I guess maybe, that men-have the same issue?

My son is 17 years old. And as the cliche goes, not quite a boy, not yet a man.
He deals with a lot of the typical things, hormones, school, growing up, full-throttle angst, and responsibility. But these things really just scratch the surface.
I'd like to say that I know what he is going through, but my failing ability to see through his eyes, is becoming quite apparent.

He is struggling.

I have posted prior about my son making the decision 2 years ago to move to his father's house-for many reasons. I told him years ago after a nasty custody battle, that when he was at least 13, he could then make the decision himself to move to spend more time with his dad, if he really wanted to and could give me good reasons-that made sense for doing so.
He did.
After removing him from public school here in my town due to the complete and utter failings in every possible way-I decided to home school. This worked fine for awhile. But when he turned 15, for him-this wasn't enough. The lack of socialization, and all of the trappings of traditional high school were calling him. Including football. Also, dad promised a car when he turned 16-something I refused to do. I didn't want to send the message that he gets handed things his entire life, and also the message that some things are worth hard work. So when Dad offered up a free car, a traditional high school experience, and quite a few other "perks" that I wasn't exactly willing, OR able to let him do. He left.
I now pay child support to a man who barely ever paid his, and I see my son every other weekend, two weeks in the summer, and rotating holidays.
Good times.

I explained to my son that the grass isn't always greener. I explained to him that the revolving door is non existent--and if he leaves, he CAN come back. But, once he does, he STAYS.
I explained that high school looks shiny and awesome from the outside. But, typically it is a building full of strife, heartache, disappointment and sadness.
True enough, my high school experience could be construed as singular-but according to most adults I know-when asked about their memory of high school-I typically get an answer that sums up: Fucking brutal.

I also let my son know about his father's family Dynamic and how that could possibly play out for him.

He was warned.

But in typical 17-year old style-he knows everything, and Mom is an idiot.

To be as brief as I possibly can here-at the beginning of the school year (full of wonder and possibility-ugh) he gets kicked off of the football team for a suspension for a really trivial thing and is told that he is OFF all extra curriculars  until the middle of next year. So, as a Junior-that basically ends football for him altogether.
He was edging the idea of quitting school at that point.
And as much as that opened a big wide door for me, I discouraged it. And really...I am the one who talked him out of it-to my own behest.
Because it's not in his best interests-period.
I did explain to his father that without football, he will not give one shit about school, and that he has to stay on him about grades.
He hasn't. 
And he is currently failing three subjects.
I also warned his father to make sure he is monitoring him with girls.
Because without the distraction of sports and other activities, he could end up running wild with that car and the freedom.
He didn't. 
So, my son gets a job-which he likes, and which I had hoped would distract him from all things vagina for awhile.
It didn't.
Sigh.

And- last week we had a "Plan B" situation.
Good times.

When this happened-he didn't feel comfortable telling his father. Interesting, no?
So, my husband and I took the wheel-and bail him out of his "predicament".

Last night, he sends me a text and asks if I could come get him-apparently, his dad found out about the Plan B, the fact that he has been skipping early bird PE to get "tutoring" from "a friend", and how low his grades are-and threatened to take away his car, and make him quit his job.
And that was a whole hour of text convo, almost leading to a 17 year old runaway situation.

So.

After talking him down from the proverbial ledge-things are in limbo.

His father tells him he has a week to raise his grades. Which is not practical.
And my son, seeing no way out-says screw this-and plans an escape.
Escape from becoming a man.

Apparent escape from all semblance of integrity, and escape from his commitment. The same one that turned all of our lives upside down two years ago,

And here we are.

And here I am. Not knowing how to guide him.

Part of me wants to open my arms and shelter him from all of the bad things in the world, and save him from his mistakes.
And the other part wants me to be a tough love parent and tell him-suck it up, buttercup.

But, his age being so close to the big one-eight is not helping this situation at all.
He-not quite a boy, not yet a man-is feeling so much like a full grown adult that he is SURE, quitting school, working, and leaving home for his Own place is the solution for everything.

Yeah, I know.

So, I find myself-well, stressed-obvi. And scared, and a little helpless.
I want to mom-control this bitch all over the place. I want to fire up my proverbial micro-management chopper and hover like some bad ass CIA surveillance.  I want to call his father and be all like: What THE FUCK is going ON over there, "superdad". You are so busy posturing and bullying that you are forgetting to parent our son, you moronic little turd goblin.
You were SO fucking sure that you could do this better than me, and look...just look at the mess you have made-you utter failure of a man.

But, what I want-and need-are completely two different things, of course. Or better said-what I want and what my SON needs are two different things.

I'd like to do the united front thing, and trust that his father and I could work together and help him.  But, he and I have two very different styles of parenting and he's just SUCH an asshole.
Don't get me wrong, for the most part-we get along. For Logan's sake.
But, I still have a hard time wrapping my head around WHY I ever let him stick his penis into me-and I just don't like the guy, truth be told.

So now, what?

So now, I am waiting for the phone to ring and to figure out what to do.

Maybe the answer is to just let my kid find his own way here. Two years ago, I was literally forced into the empty nest. And while I'm not alone there. I have my husband, who is always my rock-I still feel like that I was cheated out of years. And maybe, while I have had to find a way to let my resentment go-the lesson has to be learned.
My only duty at this point because of the situation being what it is-is to let my son learn his lesson, here.
It is not in my nature to let go-let God. But, for the 10 year old to make that transition from not quite a boy, and the fast lane into-a man, has to be of his own making.
I can't control it. And I know this. It drives me crazy to step back and watch the goat-screw unfold.

But that's what good parenting is, I guess.

Watching the goat-screw unfold.

And letting them know that whatever the outcome of said screwing is-that you are there for the aftermath. To hug it out. Cry with them. And try to repair the damage.
And of course, being me...making sure to say: I TOLD YOU SO.

Being a man isn't about sex, or money, order grades, or career, or anything like that.
It's about becoming a person you would allow your own son or daughter to be with. It's about respect. And treating others the way they treat you. It's about how you handle anger, and how you manifest it, and why you manifest it. Is it warranted? It's about how you protect and love and show absolute loyalty to everyone who does the same for you, and not taking advantage of it. It's about who you trust and how many reasons you can come up with-warranted reasons-for someone to trust you. And it's about love. Loving your family, your parents, your friends, your own children, and your significant others-unconditionally-and remembering what you put your parents through, and smiling about it (just a little) when your own children are doing the same thing to you.
It's about giving a shit.  About others, and yourself. Kindness, giving and receiving. And mostly it's about time. Time isn't just a healer-time is a teacher. And there is no lesson greater than the one that time teaches you. Mostly because it is short. And really, perspective is omnipotent.

Let's hope that in some way-my son squeezes some of this out of what is happening to him right now. Because ultimately-he won't listen to me when I tell him. He's 17-he knows everything.

Just ask him.

XOXO,
#momoftheyear

Weather...

...Or not.

You happen to like winter.  It's here.

Fuck.

I am not a winter lover. I loathe the snow, the cold, the frozen ground, the frozen cars, and frozen fingers and toes.

I detest the thin, dry, air. The slathering of chapstick, lotion, and static electricity when I am attempting to look pretty and styling my low-maintenance hair.

I have never been the person who likes to play in snow, or make snowmen, or snow angels, or build forts, or have snowball fights.

I DON'T LIKE WINTER.

Insult to injury...even though I don't like it. Typically I get three good months of autumn to prepare my body for the aching bones, the sight of my own breath, and layers of clothes. This year...we skipped fall altogether. And it really pisses me off.
Mid-November.
Not even Thanksgiving-and we are shivering, shoveling, salting, sliding, and bundling. It's a fucking weather conspiracy.

But.

In the interest of being a more positive person...today.
There are a handful of good things about winter. I'll name them. Because this last week has been filled with negative crap, and because my soul and maybe your soul...needs some kinder, gentler, information.
And you know me. The kindest and gentlest girl around.
Shutup.


Firstly...
What is it about snow that makes things quiet?

According to some hinky research I did, apparently-when snow stacks up-it absorbs the sound waves and some of the sound between each flake. And, with all of that space-sound is unable to bounce off of snow-as a result, the sound gets absorbed.
Interesting.
But besides all of the scientific mumbo-jumbo gumming up the works-I happen to like that extreme stillness and quiet of a winter night. Some people find it eerie. I never have.
Because the world is so typically noisy, and busy, and really fucking annoying-the nights where everything is white and still- are a refreshing change of pace and needed for sanity.
I mean, who doesn't need a little peace and quiet sometimes?
A winter night is a good start.

Also, there is the whole hot liquids thing.
I mean, as IF-I ever needed an excuse to drink coffee, right?
But not just coffee.
Hot cocoa with a mound of whipped cream so high it tickles your nose, or a cup of lava-hot chamomile tea in an oversized mug.
Or the fresh cup of hot Colombian in the morning with a teaspoon of sugar, a sprinkle of fresh cinnamon, and half and half. 
On a cold day or night...snuggled up on your chair (or sofa in my case) with a warm blanket, a book,  and the quiet snow and a cup of hot liquid-with no place to go is damn near nirvana for this chubby girl.

Snow days. An excuse to call into work and do what I mentioned above-or play board games with your kids, or have a movie marathon with a massive bowl of popcorn, or a Netflix binge, or online shopping all day. Or WRITING.
You know, Just having the excuse to blow off life for a day and mental health break yourself away from reality and just do NOTHING. Is there anything better? I challenge you to find something.

Clothes. No skin.
First of all...I ROCK a turtleneck sweater.  I have a ton of them. They are my standard winter uniform.
But, an excuse to look all chic in a black cowl neck, a pair of jeggings, and ankle or riding boots with frilly socks underneath. Yes please.

Warm jammies. A warmed terrycolth robe after a HOT bath with Dr. Teals.

My cat.
My cat could give two shits less about us when it is hot. I mean, can you blame him? He is wearing a fucking fur coat that he cannot take off.
So when winter comes and he is cold...he actually likes us.
He strives for body heat. So, he will actually snuggle. And this fur-mama...loves her some Charlie snuggle. I am wholly convinced that one of the best things in life is the sound of a contented feline purr. It's like joy escaping into the world.

My huge, king-sized down feather winter comforter.
It's not purposely weighted...but it is heavy. And so stinkin' warm. I sleep so much better when wrapped in this burrito of cotton and corduroy. (Its reversible) It's like a trip back to the womb.  It does make getting up in the cold morning a challenge, yes. But...the sweet sleep. The SWEET sleep. My God. Yes.

Football playoffs, and Mardi Gras.
Enough said. 

Christmas.
Christmas is about stuff.
I like stuff.
(nope..not having a discussion about religion here, folks...as much as everyone pretends that it's about the birth of Christ-no one really knows when that date actually was...and the Bible does mostly guess work...I digress)
Christmas is about stuff.
I like giving stuff.
The getting is OK too...but I'm a giver.
I like stuff.

So, these are the few of my favorite things about cold weather.
Winter, to be exact.

But, I am still pissed that fall never really happened. The leaves are still on the damn trees and there is currently 3 inches of snow on the ground and it is 15 degrees outside.
We got completely screwed.

So, I guess in an effort to salvage my mood, I'll just make myself a cup of cocoa and shut the hell up.

What? You were thinking it...I just said it.

Stay warm.

XOXO,
Suzie Chapstick.
Damnit.

Embracing My...

...Inner Thespian.

Relax. I'm married. Look up the word.

So, it's been a long time...shouldn't have left you...without a dope beat to step to.

Sorry, I like 90's R&B. It used to be my sex soundtrack when I was single.

Don't judge. And Alliyah is dead now, so don't be disrespectful.

Anyway, sorry I haven't written much. But, the title implies that I was doing something new. I warned you about it in other entries, don't seem so shocked.
I was busy.

The theater proved to be a mostly positive experience for me. And despite my early apprehensions, it was fun. I don't regret it and a certainly glad that I finally put on my big girl panties and did it. They are the ones embroidered with the days of the week, and no stains. I'm a big girl now.
I could wax poetic about all of the experience with great, illustrious, descriptive words and give you the visceral tour. But, really I just want to talk about why it was so special to me without all of the pretentious bullshit.

It was the people.

I had been warned about "drama folk" for a good long time. And that the name didn't just foreshadow the drama of the theater...but drama Queens and Kings can actually be dramatic. (Shocking, I know) And not filled with  good drama, but negative drama. Divas, primadonnas, and contrarian know-it-alls abound.
But, I thought initially, whatever...I'm scrappy, bring it.

And while I am sure that those people and those things 100% DO exist....I didn't have that experience.
Maybe I got lucky. Or maybe it was some trick to lure my plebeian ass BACK for more later. You know...give me the fever and this pulling desire to do every show my local scene cranks out. Kinda like the casinos. They draw you in with a thousand dollar slot win, knowing full well you will put that shit right back in and pull out your credit card to keep going.
Drama pushers, if you will.

Well, other than life BLOOD (caffeine) and legal chemicals (cigarettes) and donuts-I'm no junkie, and I found my cast-mates to be some of the most wonderful, down to earth, kind, generous, and genuine people I have ever encountered.
Spending years around speech folk-a close cousin to theater folk, and musicians, I have found this to be a heady mix of 60% asses, and 40% otherwise cool people. So, the horror stories once told to me, I had assumed would be true-
I was wrong. Shutup. It happens occasionally.

The veterans were great. Offering guidance without judgment. Direction without malice, or eye-rolls. The newbies were equally great, and there were a lot of us. A great deal more than I expected. I definitely didn't feel alone in that pursuit. There were people who had never done theater, and there were people like me, who hadn't done it in years and just returned, and the babies-or the kids...who were really-mostly kids. But, a group of talented little shits, with great attitudes and eager to please attitudes.
And the teens...well, I work with them normally-so that was a treat for me. Getting to know all of them, and their collective stories. Teens are awesome and get a bad rap for the most part. I find them wonderful.
The experienced actors were also nice. There's always ego, sure. We all have it-people with the acting bug do what they do for one large reason and many small ones. The big one is always...to get that ego stroked like a virgin on prom night.
But, even with ego...no one seemed overly catty or big for their britches.

Everyone was truly great. No exaggeration.

I have some new found lifetime friends and the review of my mad acting skills were all positive. Of course, most of those were friends and family so they may have been being polite...but I didn't feel any falseness, therein.
A few of my family didn't particularly care for the play itself. It was perceived as avant-garde. But, most of my friends and family aren't what anyone would call typical theater goers...so that review was to be expected.

There were five really good moments throughout.
1. When my big brother was at opening night-he poked at my husband while watching my scenes and said: That's my sister up there. My husband said he was beaming. That was a tear-worthy moment, no doubt.
2. My husband said I was really good. And not just "I'm your husband and I would like sex this week ass kissing good" He said I was genuinely good up there. And he said...he cried a little. Aww.
3. My son watched me, and was proud and excited for me. And that's a lot for his jaded 17 year old self these days. I'm pretty sure his emotion was real.
And
4. I got to know one of my graduated speechies better. I didn't get the opportunity to bond with her initially, because we didn't work together much. But, I am so glad she did this show and I finally did get some time with her. She is a great young woman. Insightful, thoughtful, sweet, super smart, and so stinkin' talented-among other qualities. I feel bad that I let her slip through the cracks while coaching (sorta) but...I am glad to see the awesome woman she is becoming. I'm privileged to know her.
5. Speaking of my speechies...some came to see me. And that was awesome in itself.

Oh and, I got to eat pizza and donuts. But that's an unofficial really good moment. 

Beyond all of that-it was a lot of time demand. Hubby was impatient some weeks. We were definitely off of our regular schedule. But, when he saw the outcome-he was happy and pleased.
So all's well in Noeland.

I also learned a great deal. I know the process now, and I know what to expect as far as the work demand, and the constant vigilance in getting better for every performance. I memorized well...which was always my main concern. I never was great at rote memorization-so I surprised myself there.
I'm so glad I did it. Period.

Will I do it again? Yeah, probably. When I find a play that I really want to be a part of. I'd like a bigger part...not sure about a lead role. But, more stage time maybe and dependent on my memory allowance and the time demand.
I won't be singing, before you ask.

Cats. Being. Tortured.

Or

Cats. Copulating.

Either way, it doesn't sound good, kids.

I think it took me 4 days to recover on sleep-and I know I gained 5 lbs eating the surplus of candy and chips at rehearsal, and I got zits from all of the makeup I am not used to wearing, and I had to wear pantyhose for 6 days, and I had to hand over the planning of my annual Halloween party to my husband. BUT...once I stopped my little bitch whining about anything that was stupidly inconvenient...all I could do was smile because I finally did it.
And because there were the faces of so many proud family starting up at me on stage and the high fives, and hugs, and offered cigarettes and awesome inside jokes and pizza and...everything else-there was little to complain about. Totally off par for me, cause I bitch a lot.

Just taking something positive away from it. Truth be told, I'd be hard pressed to take anything but.

I'm still fat, btw.
My cholesterol was higher on my last blood test.
But the A1C was great.

So balance in the universe has been restored.

Sorta.

And just so you don't think my evil side is slipping- in my next entry I'll tell you all about how I literally had two different instances of almost beating up two elderly people in the last two weeks.

Nope, not kidding.
Trust me, they both had it coming.
Stay tuned.

I'm a lot of things, but not a liar.

-XOXO
Jim's Mom.

And all of our yesterdays...

...have lighted fools.

"Ooh...that's a touchy subject."
Days and days and days go by, and really...how often do you hear this phrase?

A lot.

And when I say-a lot. I mean, a crap-ton.

Daily. Hourly.

Touchy subject.

Let those words sink in for just a minute.

In a Facebook culture-those words are just common moniker.

Taboo is no longer taboo. People talk about everything-openly. On a public forum, like it is chattel.
People post memes of declaration and passionate topics like they are standing on their own personal soap box-only from behind the safe confines of their Think Pads and Chromebooks.
There are no real heroes in this world.

Even politicians, activists, are joining hand in hand with housewives and students behind the veil of the interwebs. They cry out in unison..."this is unfair, that is right, this is unjust, this is left..."

People.

It's fucking ridiculous.

I posted last last week about the Kavanaugh debacle, and the nuances and not-so-nuanced blathering opinions of everyone, and how tragically wrong most of the populace is about how they deem what's fair in the world. And by the by, this is now topically centered around a Supreme Court appointment.
And now we return to the touchy subjects.

What the hell, right? I have decided to list them.
You know-those Facebook buzzwords that seem to raise the hackles of everyone in these dangerous days? Because, I believe that being an open book most of my life has been the single most cathartic thing I have ever done.

AND because being transparent doesn't necessarily make you invisible. 

So let's be transparent. Let's put it all out there. Let's bear our soul and our collective pasty asses and just give the words some MORE publicity and more spotlight, shall we?

1. Racism. White privilege. White guilt.
2. Sexual Assault. Misogyny. Rape.
3. Poiltics. Right Wing, Left Wing, politicians.
4. Police Misconduct.
5. LGBTQ. (That's Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual, Trans-gender, Questioning for those out of the slang loop)
6. Gun Control. School Shootings. The Second Amendment.

I guess my question is this: Why are we treating all of these touchy subjects like your own personal mantras?
It's OK to have an opinion. I'd say that a great deal more people these days tend to have stronger opinions than 25 years ago. But, with that said...
Very few of you could call yourselves an expert on any of it. No matter how "intelligent" you think you are.
When did the controversy become your life? When did you decide to make your stance...your entire being about an opinion? When did you decide to make drama-and especially Facebook drama-part of who you ARE?

Stop it.

Seriously.

I want to like people. I truly do. I want to be liked (to some degree) Don't we all? I mean, I totally strive to have that kind of popularity.
I'm totally kidding...obviously I don't get a shit if you like me or not. And that's real.
But, I do demand that you respect me-and really...that should be the standard.
My likes on Facebook are not my concern.
And it is so hard to genuinely like people these days, especially.
People I thought I liked, not so much anymore.
People I already felt luke-warm feelings for...now are pretty much unliked by me, and when it comes to the internet...they don't appear as a friend in any way shape or form. Mostly because I don't speak asshole.  shut-up, I don't. 

And...I especially don't have patience for abject ignorance or stupidity. I tend to dance with the ones that brung me, so to speak.

So, where I am really going is here:
Great, if you don't care whether people like you, and have genuinely always been that guy. The guy who is always standing for something, or hollering to an empty, apathetic, audience about nothing-and living the life of this: The definition of insanity-doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result.
If you were always that guy...then keep doing you-Mr. Activist for attention, guy. Go on with your big bad self.

But, if you are a person with an actual life. More interests than social justice behind a computer screen. The person who works, spends time with family and (face to face) real friends, is a productive member of society, and occasionally hates the world-like me. Then keep doing THAT.
You are really much smarter, stronger, and self aware than you are giving yourself credit for when you are typing a 3 paragraph rant on Facebook about a "touchy subject" that the lengths of your knowledge only span from an MSNBC article, or FOX News story.
Be the person who shakes their head, and walks away and goes out to play with your kids, or write a fucking awesome blog entry, or acts in a community theater production (coming soon Something Wicked This Way Comes-Oct 19th-29th at CST) Or, makes a gourmet dinner, or has coffee with a friend around a fall fire pit.
Be THAT person.

Here's the rub...

Because life (as ridiculous and nasty and controversial as it is) is indeed-SHORT. And when you add up all of the hours that you spend posting your rhetorical opinion memes, and arguing on someone else's garbage post...that time is a tickin' away. And you have literally Nothing to show for it.

If it pisses you off...as my BFF and squad mate says: Shake it off.
(I'm kidding...I loathe Taylor Swift-and anyway, Mariah Said it first.)
But shake it off anyway.

Just because it's touchy...doesn't mean you have to defend or offend.
It only means that perspective is calling and telling you to stay aware, acknowledge it, and walk away.
If it's that important to you-then go forth into the real world, you bad ass...and do something real about it.

Trust me when I say...you are an idiot if you think you changed anyone's mind with a social media post.

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing...."
-William Shakespeare's Macbeth Act 5-Scene 5. 

Learn to signify something. It's so much better than the alternative. 

XOXO, 
Come to my play-girl. Tickets on sale now. 
(Signed, a productive member of society)

The crush...

...heard round' the world.

When I was 20 years old-I was sexually assaulted.

Yes, I started with this. The shock factor alone should keep you reading- and I need you to read this.

The story is this...

I got into a car with a guy. He took me out to the country. We were making out. He took it too far. When I said stop, he called me a cock-tease and pinned me to the seat and started to unzip his pants. He had my hands behind my head holding them.

You want the rest of the story, right? Or maybe you are recoiling at the imagery. Yes, it's real. It really happened, and I survived.
Here's the rub:
I did more than survive, I empowered myself.

Yeah. You read this right.

My incidence of sexual assault is one of victory-NOT victim.

The Kavanaugh appointment has been running wild on the book of face in the last two weeks and this week has been unbearable.
Here is MY judgment: Weak people play the victim. Weak people run to the press for publicity. Weak people play politics and let themselves be used by a batch of MEN who would probably do the same deed that Kavanaugh supposedly did, (or actually have already) to further an agenda. Weak people WAIT 30 years-even if their intentions were supposedly true and not placed there by a political agenda, to blow a whistle, or report an assault.
Weak people are weak, petty, untruthful, and sad.
Disgraceful.
Yes, disgraceful.
Disgraceful because they are actually using this as a ploy. Something that supposedly happened to you-that does actually happen to a lot of women and is sick and horrible.
Are you pissed off yet? Keep reading, ladies...I have a point.

The conclusion to my story is this:
When the guy pinned me down, he mistakenly assumed I was weak, and while squirming and yelling to break free, he left my knee unguarded. I jerked my knee up and grazed his boys. He stopped me. In doing so, he made the worst mistake of his life.

He let go of my hand. 

My opportunity was there.
I reached down quickly and grabbed his testicles and squeezed as hard as I could. Like juicing a lime.
I feel one give and turn to mush.
Disturbing?
Good.

He made a sound that I have never heard come from a human being.
We were 10 miles away from any hospital.
He had no shirt, no shoes on, and it was 45 degrees outside. It was early fall.
I left him there writhing in pain.
When I went back to the party we had left together and told my guy friends what happened, they went to where he was, lifted him up and told him to start walking. They made him walk 10 miles-no shoes, no shirt, 45 degrees to the nearest hospital with a crushed nut and an even more crushed psyche.
I went home. Showered. And high-fived myself in the mirror.
Fuck that guy.

I found out years later that they had to remove that testicle. When they asked him what happened, he said he fell on his bike bar while riding it and ruptured himself.
He knew his real story would land him in jail, and was dully embarrassed by what he did, and the fact that he was outsmarted, and overpowered by a "chick"
I don't know how he fared. But, from family sources-he went to college, did Bible study and became a preacher. He is married, but was never able to father a child himself. He adopted 2 boys. From the outside looking in, he leads a productive, happy, "God-fearing", life. He has never tried to contact me.
But, I guarantee what happened that night changed him. I also guarantee that he never touched a woman inappropriately again. No police were involved. No allegations. No wallowing. No playing the victim. 
I did what I needed to do myself. I told the guys at the party, and they doled out their own brand of justice. But-everytime that guy looks down at his genital area-he sees what's missing and has to remember what he did to me. And in turn.... 
What I did to him.
The fatal mistake he made-with no bicycle involved. 

I get that some women aren't as lucky, and there are high numbers of unreported rapes and even assaults-because if some weird sense of shame on the part of the woman/man being assaulted. (notice how I didn't use the word victim?) I HATE that word and the crutch it stands for.
Why in the holy hell would any person feel shame in the fact that they were raped or attacked? We can get into all of the ridiculous, covering, psycho-babble all damn day long-but your strength is fully yours. And it is also dependent on you.
Cowering, crying, and begging others by using your self pity and weakness is PATHETIC. Yep. I said it.
I'm just a big old meanie head.

Look. I do feel terrible for any person who suffers at the hand of another when it is undeserved. I don't condone rape, or any sexually motivated assault. As a matter of fact-it pisses me off.
But ladies, listen up...
You have been crying in the media circus for years-and a lot more recently that you want the power. You need the power. You want to rule the world!
Great! Let's do that shit.
But you cannot have your cake and eat it too.
You want to remain in the sidelines cheering the men along? OR do you want to run that ball in for the touchdown YOURSELF?

I'm a touchdown runner, myself. Screw your pom poms.

But, when I get leveled by the linebacker while running, I don't lay there and cry and then scream at the linebacker and throw a temper tantrum when he does. I also don't fucking wait 30 god-damned years and then go to the commish and file a complaint about it.
I get the ball AGAIN, and straight arm that fucker for the 50 yard reception into the end zone.
I took my power and used it to do something good, something productive, and something that looks a little like revenge. The best part:  I did this myself.
There were certainly no media folks, politicians, or #metoo reps carrying me there. I ran MYSELF.

You get the euphemism, right? 

Ladies, all of the Facebook posts against Kavanaugh are ridiculous. Your opinion matters very little in the church of the poisoned mind, and in the court of public opinion. It makes me cringe that you want to look like a victim yourself by spreading the rhetoric.
Because that's precisely what it IS.
And you should remember that.

You want to help? Stop posting memes and get your asses over to a woman's shelter and do some peer counseling. Run for office yourself and make it a priority to EMPOWER women-not put a victim spotlight on them.
Go to your local community center and teach self defense against assault.
OR...take your own lessons.
Learn how to kick ass, and quit sitting on it while posting memes on social media for some kind of misguided reaction you think will change things.
It doesn't trust me.

I can say all of this because what I told you above really happened to me.
I was sexually assaulted. (not raped) I was attacked.
It was 28 years ago.
I'm not cowering.
I do not have my hand on the button to call the police, call the media, or run out to the local chapter of #metoo to report it.
It happened to me.
I have never felt shame, remorse, or victimized.
I have not, for one second believed in anything except my own power in this circumstance.

And that is precisely what makes me rise above it.

Never wallow, darling. It's unbecoming.

Last thought...if you weren't there to witness it, and steadfast in the knowledge that she never reported it until this guy decided to be nominated to be a supreme Court justice-maybe you should just stay out of it.
If you don't like the guy for his political affiliations, or moves in his career, or what he has done professionally in his past-hate him for that. Oppose him for those things, but leave MY sexual assault out of it.
Yeah, I said MY.
Because it happened to me too.

I just have the common fucking sense to leave a hashtag out of it.

XOXO,
The crusher. 

I'm definitely like...

...French Pastry.

Yum, amiright? 

So hubby and I got into a convo about my writing this eve.

Nothing bad, just talk. We do that sometimes. I guess they say that this is a normal thing that married couples do, right?

Anyway-while talking he commented constructively that sometimes the way I write doesn't actually sit well with an everyday reader. He's honest and observant and that's precisely one of the reasons I married his fine ass.
But that said...

Hmm.

Yeah, I can dig his input.

But...I did also tell him what he already knew.
I don't care. 🤷

You see, I write for me. And I write exactly how a conversation with a friend normally goes. Like I am literally sitting with my BFF or my husband having coffee and telling her or him about my life, or my day-as it were.
I write in my real voice.

Which has been called many descriptive terms.
Abrasive
Loud
Truthful
Scary
Negative
Self-defeating, deprecating, esteem-lacking.
Bold

And I could go on for literally days.

The point here we circle back to is this...I make zero apologies for it. I use the word FUCK as often as a two-dollar hooker. I am vulgar. I am crass. I am true.

That last word wasn't what you expected, was it?

Gotcha!

Yes, true. True to the person I grew up to be.
I can be all of those negative things, sure. And it's especially true when I write...But, I can also be the persona that screams "proper chick" when I need to be.
Shrek says...he's like an onion. And I got to thinking about that-
I'm kinda more like a croissant. Many layers-a bit flaky-and filled with butter and fat.

Tasty.
**Sorry I had to.

Look, in a conversation with a person do you prefer the bland, garden-variety depth?
Or do you like it with something a bit more interesting? You know...everyone likes to raise their eyebrow occasionally.
I am the consummate eyebrow raiser.

How bout'that? 

And don't for a second act like that doesn't pique your interest to some degree.  Life is boring enough...and I am anything but boring. Especially when I write.
For instance, I like coffee...I like the taste of coffee black, even though I typically drink it with cream and raw sugar.
I think, you have to take my writing like a cup of coffee...when it's dark...it's a little bitter and hot-but tastes great despite its harshness.
Or, sometimes you can add a little cream and sugar and make it a little lighter on the palate-but also then...appreciate that you can have it either way.
Easy enough, right?
That gives you some perspective on how to handle it. Or don't...whatever.

The thing is, my voice is what makes me unique. Even when I say something ridiculously stupid or uncouth.
And the world is full of drones who follow lines, like ants.
I don't like insects. Period.

I prefer to be like rich, buttery, sexy, filling, delicious French pastry that tastes great alone, or covered in decadent raspberry jam-or chocolate-yes!

I don't have quite enough cacao to cover my girth (quick...erase that from your head right now before it requires trepination (yes, it's a thing...look it up)

But seriously-I'm making no apologies for this entry, any other one, or any other thing I have written...I do it for me, and because it's cathartic, and because it screams ME.

And as the saying goes...

Yeah, and there's that odd sense of humor too. It's probably because I am smarter than you. 

Hey, I'm fat...I had to have some qualities. You don't get them all. ;)

So, read me or leave me. That won't change. 

If you are waiting for that to happen-see below-

(How rude!)

And I'll just be over here, raising eyebrows and waiting for my jam. 

XOXO, 

Pillsbury Dough-girl.