tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70388152172439080352024-03-13T00:15:02.977-07:00Yarning to WriteKnitting, motherhood, whatever...Amy Lanehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04885706951931450373noreply@blogger.comBlogger2646125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-16272406299537479412022-12-17T23:54:00.000-08:002022-12-17T23:54:37.366-08:00Other Places You can Find Me<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0Qgn8XPZc0DBKAD9g9EHYoYZl6q0Ml9JaqvPjgv-QlWO9LZNMbtfP7ujDZ7-0LoTtS0q_F34GvH6ihBNX0cTxbWuYmo4QzfGTg2W7NjNAJkqWDjaX3EFRtAV-77d00eFEXH8ERILkmMQfQdQsJyNRinpNatLzbXFc3h44ILOAMH3S0I6IS38Tuje/s640/1DB61491-AA3A-4B7F-9468-18B7C526FB42.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0Qgn8XPZc0DBKAD9g9EHYoYZl6q0Ml9JaqvPjgv-QlWO9LZNMbtfP7ujDZ7-0LoTtS0q_F34GvH6ihBNX0cTxbWuYmo4QzfGTg2W7NjNAJkqWDjaX3EFRtAV-77d00eFEXH8ERILkmMQfQdQsJyNRinpNatLzbXFc3h44ILOAMH3S0I6IS38Tuje/s320/1DB61491-AA3A-4B7F-9468-18B7C526FB42.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> So, I started this blog 15 and a half years ago--and I've loved it. I'm not quite ready to let it go in my heart--I mean, I've got a pretty solid record here, of my careers, of watching my kids grow up, of my animals. I've got some funny stories, and, hopefully, some insightful ideas on this site, and I've loved maintaining it.<p></p><p>But... </p><p>But this is my first post in six weeks. </p><p>And it's not that I haven't done things or said things--or even posted funny things on FB--but even before social media broke my heart (several times over) it was pretty clear that blogs were not cutting edge or end-all-and-be-all. Yes, Twitter is a nightmare, I take the worst pictures ANYWHERE, much less Instagram, and FB can be a real snakepit but, these things are also where I attract readers, and where more people go to read me. <br /></p><p>This may not be my last blog post--but then, I'm not sure how many people would notice if it was. </p><p>And while I miss blogging, and the introspection that comes with it, I've also come to treasure living in the moment. The thing with having your heart broken by social media is that it makes you very aware of the family and friends you have in the here and now. While I've been noticeably absent on the blog, I've been, I hope, very PRESENT in the lives of my family and on my FB group, which is lively and happening and very, very funny. </p><p>For those of you who have tuned in for every post--and I know there's a few of you--please don't let this be goodbye. My newsletter is surprisingly chatty and newsy and anecdotal, and if you were tuning into the blog to see what's coming out next, the newsletter is a great place to to get that info too. If you liked the blog because I posted the occasional free fiction, well, my Patreon is pretty active. I post there 3-4 times a month, and about half the time the post is open to the public. And if you like the quick, funny family conversations, well, that would be FB and my FB group--and FB is sort of great because it will push up some of your most popular posts. So, you know, if something made me laugh last year, you'll see it again and hopefully laugh some more. </p><p>I'll post the links to all of those things below, and I really hope to see you there--and this might not be the end completely! It's just... I would rather say goodbye and leave some forwarding addresses now, then simply let the whole thing fade away. It feels like a choice rather than simply leaving something I've been pretty faithful to for longer than a lot of marriages last. </p><p>So while I may not be HERE a lot, I REALLY hope to see you THERE much more. And seriously--if you haven't signed up for my newsletter or visited the Patreon (for FREE CONTENT!!!) you really should!</p><p>So take care to those who've tuned in faithfully for the last 15 years--I'm not going away, I'm just going to more fully inhabit the venues where we are all more active. SEE YOU THERE!!!</p><p>Newsletter: <a href="https://www.greenshill.com/amylaneromancenewsletter.html">NEWSLETTER LINK</a></p><p>Patreon: <a href="https://www.patreon.com/AmyHEALane">AmyHEAlane </a></p><p>FB: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/amy.lane.167">Amy Lane</a> (My home page) <a href="https://www.facebook.com/amylaneromance">Choose Your Lane to Love</a> (My professional page)</p><p> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/364533133651583">Amy Lane Anonymous </a> (My very funny group)</p><p>Twitter: @amymaclane </p><p>IG: @amymaclane </p><p>Website: www.greenshill.com </p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-5319926795238864422022-10-31T01:21:00.003-07:002022-10-31T01:21:51.611-07:00heh heh... so about those plans...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6UmgDhNsz-w2Rjs7q81J8wulmEq8JvoDI85crt9X_aSwrRbOKBds88dkQCtbeDTGG_Im8DpunDWgxpvSdBRZSX7v0C9WUtK_erwi92H-Hpk4Z0aMRNtoQXZ7RQurwfpgLnhQxR3e11bsy9BDYGKrsM3rYCBxuFhE3Iaf4V76HL1k3gTMEwV1suTFf/s1875/RisingTide%5BThe%5D_postcard_front_DSP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1875" data-original-width="1275" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6UmgDhNsz-w2Rjs7q81J8wulmEq8JvoDI85crt9X_aSwrRbOKBds88dkQCtbeDTGG_Im8DpunDWgxpvSdBRZSX7v0C9WUtK_erwi92H-Hpk4Z0aMRNtoQXZ7RQurwfpgLnhQxR3e11bsy9BDYGKrsM3rYCBxuFhE3Iaf4V76HL1k3gTMEwV1suTFf/s320/RisingTide%5BThe%5D_postcard_front_DSP.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><br />Wow. It's been over a month since I've blogged. I've released a new BOOK since I've blogged. (<i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0B6H551SM/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p1_i0">The Rising Tide</a>--</i>it's a lot of fun--you should check it out.)<p></p><p>I've gone on a long trip since I've blogged. From California to Virginia Beach, where I stayed with Mate for a lovely night, and from there he drove me to Portsmouth, where I attended the GRL convention (while he visited with his family.) After the book signing at GRL, he came and picked me up, taking me to Gaithersburg where <i>I </i>visited with his family, and from there we went to New Jersey where we both met with my family, and my friend Damon.</p><p>And then, after a "bonus" night (or, more accurately, after my curse sentenced us a night at an airport hotel) we came home.</p><p>Whew.</p><p>In all, we were gone nearly ten days, and our kids seem to have left the house standing and the animals alive. (We left Chicken at home with the teenagers for fun and frivolity. It appears instead of destroying the house, they merely responsibly carried on with their lives. Go figure.)</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PnHRy2lLwZzPM6ZfNnVnWGVR6i2nyJMK0HZ_TEqBzAUBplVHpn7AVYl5ufbp5O6DINuSR4c3vVb1opRprRwRl0c2fC8Ae8PuReTvIdxpioU-RlHmBUorehSJyU07ZJS2iToRCVswmi9JRN2XAsmXh3BSTlBcsoBrQVJIRLBprA5KSw2h07whLmQk/s640/IMG_2337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PnHRy2lLwZzPM6ZfNnVnWGVR6i2nyJMK0HZ_TEqBzAUBplVHpn7AVYl5ufbp5O6DINuSR4c3vVb1opRprRwRl0c2fC8Ae8PuReTvIdxpioU-RlHmBUorehSJyU07ZJS2iToRCVswmi9JRN2XAsmXh3BSTlBcsoBrQVJIRLBprA5KSw2h07whLmQk/w138-h184/IMG_2337.JPG" width="138" /></a></div>Anyway--all in all, we had a great time, but, oi! So many things to talk about, right? (By the way--if you like my weird ramblings, be sure to sign up for my Newsletter, where they will be reliably delivered to your e-mail box, along with the newest offering :-) <a href="https://www.greenshill.com/amylaneromancenewsletter.html">SIGN UP HERE. </a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXIBk16jeJIAINS784Zheip6PuAu-GkieKauLe_Zg44aUtZKhwcpteLDF85NHzHtd9UM0If66UI7Pln9w7QGeC9J-rFcUNDi9j6cjoEhjwTSd2zn_vtY2LXBp51DNICKRMEbELp84_h1g8g2XKn4rm56L5OiJi6GU55__P41j9sFvsUSduOYuo2At/s2048/IMG_2336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXIBk16jeJIAINS784Zheip6PuAu-GkieKauLe_Zg44aUtZKhwcpteLDF85NHzHtd9UM0If66UI7Pln9w7QGeC9J-rFcUNDi9j6cjoEhjwTSd2zn_vtY2LXBp51DNICKRMEbELp84_h1g8g2XKn4rm56L5OiJi6GU55__P41j9sFvsUSduOYuo2At/w187-h249/IMG_2336.JPG" width="187" /></a></div><p></p><p>First of all, let's do Thank Yous!</p><p>* Thank you to the waiter at the Magic Mushroom Pizza Emporium on Virginia Beach who recommended the Loaded Baked Potato pizza. It really WAS a magical pizza.</p><p>* Thank you to the organizers of GRL--Reese Dante and her husband Ron, Carol Lynne, Teresa Emil--you all do a lovely job, and thank you so much for having me!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKFw9Cd49m2stHStyQyUGeVzBmsGbotcgmnHCqialPPR17Su-p2RF5xXz8LnfXzuUNJHJlXiAAoJn4LsP8XncevnWvQA7DDQc-XNYbwQ7xqhuUhy2kiFUDwCqHNEpjoEOe42YXK_1OYQMRsf69Xv16pcD-ViVHIktNCxh9caMcaajJX0elwi0_flX/s2048/IMG_2327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1371" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKFw9Cd49m2stHStyQyUGeVzBmsGbotcgmnHCqialPPR17Su-p2RF5xXz8LnfXzuUNJHJlXiAAoJn4LsP8XncevnWvQA7DDQc-XNYbwQ7xqhuUhy2kiFUDwCqHNEpjoEOe42YXK_1OYQMRsf69Xv16pcD-ViVHIktNCxh9caMcaajJX0elwi0_flX/w170-h254/IMG_2327.JPG" width="170" /></a></div>* Thank you to the new readers who made a real point to come and say hi and to be excited about the work--I'm always so overwhelmed that people keep reading, and so grateful that they do.<p></p><p>* Thank you to the readers I've seen a few times--who are still excited and come up and say hi. Because I love that, as awkward and weird as I am in person, we can still connect with the stories we love.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSYbkIf5dhPtd0747K3moVWBheEjZ-Z70qwR7OiTGCA4hqufP-mroas0m3dCHLZpldSjVC-Gv1RzH7JkL0UJBe5yKRVf3SxMi6AmyOCCHWsQRLjRfyOIIfP6LDhQTUzTq1tqWzHKKC2Srv84cbyLnvj0ghe-tzSZ5LgNkPt6ESy_BRQS5AmtnwH0Z/s640/68810153825__56F6B67D-AF32-4D7A-AEAD-D1163C410ACF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSYbkIf5dhPtd0747K3moVWBheEjZ-Z70qwR7OiTGCA4hqufP-mroas0m3dCHLZpldSjVC-Gv1RzH7JkL0UJBe5yKRVf3SxMi6AmyOCCHWsQRLjRfyOIIfP6LDhQTUzTq1tqWzHKKC2Srv84cbyLnvj0ghe-tzSZ5LgNkPt6ESy_BRQS5AmtnwH0Z/w146-h195/68810153825__56F6B67D-AF32-4D7A-AEAD-D1163C410ACF.jpg" width="146" /></a></div><p></p><p>* Thank you to my roommate, Kim Fielding, who was as eager to find a coffee place in the morning as I was, and who made me laugh--a LOT--and who didn't mind talking until we really should have been asleep, and who sat on a panel with me and was funny and charming and made me super glad I was there too.</p><p>* Thank you to my kids who sent Proof-of-Life pictures of the dogs, bless them. Including the adorable little outfits. <3 <3 <3 to all of you for letting Dad and I have this trip together.</p><p>* Thank you to Mate's family, bless you all, who were happy to see him, some of whom traveled from Pennsylvania to Maryland to meet him and who made him remember that he was not the last of his line. He's so grateful.</p><p>* Thank you to his Aunt Margie and Uncle Tom who were happy to see me after he came and fetched me from GRL, and who were happy to sit up with us and watch TV and who didn't so much as bat an eyelash when I read an emergency chapter of <i>Weirdos </i>to them because the conversation had turned to politics and even though I agreed with them, I was just so over politics I went, "HEY WANNA HEAR A BOOK?'</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEighTgo6ItSEUUPMYKbqnTClxfmEssI1qSjo7IUF-_iJyGzad9dAqv2lWUSpwuZmVCgn3vM4NYiX3vF77sgpmY6O-OJPwNmWkmNXqnS3rWggftYeq39Ij0A7UodWsymUabzmxa32nQKrb6PSyPIzrhNVCwu20lG_BYL2xWfvwCnNtOGH8AlrgH9xBcx/s640/IMG_0604.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEighTgo6ItSEUUPMYKbqnTClxfmEssI1qSjo7IUF-_iJyGzad9dAqv2lWUSpwuZmVCgn3vM4NYiX3vF77sgpmY6O-OJPwNmWkmNXqnS3rWggftYeq39Ij0A7UodWsymUabzmxa32nQKrb6PSyPIzrhNVCwu20lG_BYL2xWfvwCnNtOGH8AlrgH9xBcx/w259-h194/IMG_0604.JPG" width="259" /></a></div>* Thank you to my cousins, who all gathered in the charming New England town of Piermont to have dinner with mate and I after we drove from Maryland to New Jersey, just to say hi and give me a hug and to have a raucous wonderful dinner where we remembered that we were related again. <p></p><p>* Thank you especially to my cousin Alex who welcomed us into his home the night afterward for pizza and conversation. He and his wife were lovely and they just wanted to talk MOAR and I love them so much you have no idea. Also their son is adorable. They're my age and they had a child at 48 and that takes an amount of bravery I don't think I could ever have. Bless them all.</p><p>* Thank you to Damon Suede who met us for lunch at Annabella's Mozzarella Deli (with a milkshake at the banana hut which was every bit as kitschy and weird as I thought it would be) and who was lively and entertaining and awesome and still my friend after nearly ten years. Love you, honey. Thank you for everything <3</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfV7t8pGvaOTHJEqoH_ZPGg2jb9JCR-tIMpJ58gpBaG34slIano0i6iy53adQTeiownbc1v3yFY8BHESwU5pX07aKMp_q9I9ayfExBQq9XvjDdtJx1f2ATTVDTgv4vtpCtqJKoQ_RVRfiY-4ptk3Ia4N3WbrRVoSQmpGbhc2Tqe9BUTakU4VKs5oML/s640/F4E618B4-7288-484E-AAB2-0354047E50DF.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfV7t8pGvaOTHJEqoH_ZPGg2jb9JCR-tIMpJ58gpBaG34slIano0i6iy53adQTeiownbc1v3yFY8BHESwU5pX07aKMp_q9I9ayfExBQq9XvjDdtJx1f2ATTVDTgv4vtpCtqJKoQ_RVRfiY-4ptk3Ia4N3WbrRVoSQmpGbhc2Tqe9BUTakU4VKs5oML/s320/F4E618B4-7288-484E-AAB2-0354047E50DF.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>* Thank you also to the maitre de and proprietor of Annabella's Mozzarella Deli who... well, he started off by singing Frank Sinatra to us as he dropped off our waters and ended up by soliciting some writer help from Damon on a script he'd been working on and... okay. He was the entire New Jersey experience in a very handsome package and a red henley shirt. I should have taken a picture, but... dude. There was just so much to capture.<p></p><p>* Thank you to Johns Hotel and the Thai Place and cookie places we found on Door Dash after we ended up spending a "BONUS" day in NYC because there was fog in Chicago somewhere. All three of these businesses were unlikely to be patronized by two exhausted tourists from California, but they all rose to the occasion.</p><p>Whew! I hope I remember everybody. I mean, I had a LOT of fun on this trip--I wanted to give credit to all the kind folks who made it happen, right?</p><p>And now for the "Needs Improvement" portion of our program, which I hope is taken in good fun--with a tiny bit of irritation for spice. Are we ready? Here we go.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPo2EsPqJzHpNPmIEQjKqHEmNmgprdcEFgpOPCNk_2k_vyK-9hmycBdlsSvPENxS0iE5DavKNhjV-dn_knPeRFicJZhCSq9iwOQoVs_sCi-b9Xt24AkrbBu4OGYqfoLYwtrzGGOuFwQkdLy8x5CgrewXF3PgqBFGWSYdwkGGeVzRiFTqvXVVKBCQj6/s640/IMG_2311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPo2EsPqJzHpNPmIEQjKqHEmNmgprdcEFgpOPCNk_2k_vyK-9hmycBdlsSvPENxS0iE5DavKNhjV-dn_knPeRFicJZhCSq9iwOQoVs_sCi-b9Xt24AkrbBu4OGYqfoLYwtrzGGOuFwQkdLy8x5CgrewXF3PgqBFGWSYdwkGGeVzRiFTqvXVVKBCQj6/w176-h234/IMG_2311.jpg" width="176" /></a></div>* And to the wonderful coffee shop in Portsmouth who welcomed the GRL clientele with a lot of good humor and the fastest service one barista and a food server could possibly deliver. I loved you. The only reason you're in the Needs Improvement column is that I really could have used a 24 oz Irishman in Paris every morning for a week, and you only offered 16 oz. Seriously, my only complaint. Thank you guys for being awesome.<p></p><p>* And to the Public House that served steak and catfish at night and brunch on Saturday afternoon? Steak and catfish ALL THE HOURS. Damn. It was so good. I mean, brunch was wonderful, but the catfish was GREAT. I need catfish now. Nobody fries catfish in California and it's a damned shame.</p><p>* And to the mobsters who apparently ruined New Jersey's freeway and road system in the fifties by giving all the road contracts to people in the concrete business and getting kickbacks for all the concrete they used, creating a concrete vermicelli nightmare that changed one mile as the crow flies to a twenty minute odyssey of jug handle exits and zero right turns? Fuck you guys, I hope you're all roasting in hell. You were batshit insane sociopaths in life, and your concrete souls remain to torture the people of New Jersey in death and generally I spit on your memories, you bastards.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-oMwHQBIYqKD0mywtvpoEY0W5VA71JJHU76LayD1r3zwlAi-hcO9xDZIfsz3xoa96_fROfDT93eppyhhxA-jMSp5brZMitK45N07xw5Yuv_TL07Z8rxfzVydDv_s_fmqIjQfUSMS0aliOJsZyn-zx3J_K6kr9SqQh2-UvfVuW_hdwNMitiaffKvf/s640/IMG_2329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-oMwHQBIYqKD0mywtvpoEY0W5VA71JJHU76LayD1r3zwlAi-hcO9xDZIfsz3xoa96_fROfDT93eppyhhxA-jMSp5brZMitK45N07xw5Yuv_TL07Z8rxfzVydDv_s_fmqIjQfUSMS0aliOJsZyn-zx3J_K6kr9SqQh2-UvfVuW_hdwNMitiaffKvf/w265-h199/IMG_2329.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>* And to Patton Oswald whom I normally adore and think of fondly, I have a particularly complicated fuck you. See, when we got to Mate's Aunt and Uncle's, we sat down and turned on the TV and tried to destress from the drive. We turned on Patton Oswald's new special, Hysterectomies and Hemorrhoids and enjoyed the first ten minutes. A little spicy, but very funny. So when Mate's Aunt and Uncle got home, and we put the special on pause, we weren't reluctant at all to unpause it when conversation wound down and we were all ready to lose ourselves in media for a bit. What Mate and I did not know was that the next ten minutes of the comedy routine would be about clown pubes. Mate and I looked at each other in horror and I texted the adult daughter and teenagers with "Help! Dad and I are watching a comedy special about clown pubes in front of Aunt Marge and Uncle Tom!" to which they responded, "ABORT ABORT ABORT! FIND A SITCOM, MOM--GET OUT OF THERE!" But it was too late. The mortification of two 55 year olds made to feel like children getting caught watching SNL when their parents thought they were asleep was complete. So Patton? You will never see this, and I still love and adore you, but seriously? For that moment in my life? FUCK YOU.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHBYy4eGYdWowZqKMsN4aWkLfvYjCrGFF5HhkxJQc5WNQmYwNhQgz6ufjZDwkGzqfgJ1WeZK_PPKu6Wv5Zbtr0O3cgE6ScQR6FnaZYbxSbuGlidMiwgYfu4ZpbzGQwtBPaRQ6VizPgZwVmjCVTsiUU71MQrxOxVHvoJcxiMhqZ4AfAQDGmoRUJSN9/s640/IMG_0621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHBYy4eGYdWowZqKMsN4aWkLfvYjCrGFF5HhkxJQc5WNQmYwNhQgz6ufjZDwkGzqfgJ1WeZK_PPKu6Wv5Zbtr0O3cgE6ScQR6FnaZYbxSbuGlidMiwgYfu4ZpbzGQwtBPaRQ6VizPgZwVmjCVTsiUU71MQrxOxVHvoJcxiMhqZ4AfAQDGmoRUJSN9/w199-h149/IMG_0621.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>* And finally. To the designers of Flushing Meadows, That wonderful place in Queens where you see the globe and the alien spaceships left over from the World's Fair in 1964 and is featured in Men in Black? I'd like to give you fuckers a hearty sendoff for creating a place with --when the museum is closed--two public bathrooms, total, each one 3/4s of a mile from the center of the park. Seriously, you assholes. FUCK YOU. If I'd been in California, there would have been a portajohn every 150 yards. Considering we had to spend an hour in traffic to get there? Would it have killed you to put a bathroom in with less than a mile's walk from parking? You fucking assholes. I'm not even kidding. Jesus.<p></p><p>* And to the airlines--a particularly personal Fuck You because this whole overnight curse thing is starting to feel like you're picking on me. I know someone who gets on a plane three times a month who does not have overnight layovers as often as I do in a year. I've got to tell you, that bonus night in NYC was not the bonus the airlines thought it was. Yeeesh. <br /><br /></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-28562656089963045712022-09-26T00:37:00.000-07:002022-09-26T00:37:07.197-07:00Plans for the Future<p> (I'll write one of these posts in earnest on my Patreon soon, complete with links and pub dates--this one is mostly for fun!)</p><p>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.</p><p>So when my dad excused himself to use the bathroom, Mate and I braced ourselves.</p><p>He returned trying not to look appalled.</p><p>"Was that a... uhm... hole in the floor under that mats?"</p><p>"Well, yeah--I mean, it's not through the sub flooring yet, but, uhm, yeah."</p><p>He made a manly attempt not to flail. "Aren't you afraid of falling <i>through </i>that?"</p><p>"Yes," I said. "Mate is fully aware it's a possibility."</p><p>"Have you thought about getting that fixed?"</p><p>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."</p><p>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?"</p><p>"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.</p><p>As you all know, I am not.</p><p>"So what do you plan to do?"</p><p>"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."</p><p>My father is horrified. "That's a plan?"</p><p>"Sure."</p><p>And the conversation gets coopted by somebody else.</p><p>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?"</p><p>"I <i>do </i>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."</p><p>"Just try to make sure Dad's the one who finds you."</p><p>"Roger that."</p><p>Seriously, my money's on face first on the keyboard, but that's just me. </p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-52011128066352500972022-08-25T13:56:00.001-07:002022-08-25T13:56:52.291-07:00All About the Poop <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvGoMBdpYyOJcUxd2wa-87RkevCCz3Jh31aobwruBX3QDet_OcfNDs2xPZpp8EYEGNZJubJrHskopu0Z0Ml5ZLUVWDS31Tf-UAkPxi4b5dKh0RhKExz12IskuQsY1pzfL6oed1_ITl9V9vsW17l8ZkDLJ4h1KKI0sLHN1RelJ-imblXIgcNIfRSvTv/s1875/Weirdos_postcard_front_DSP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1875" data-original-width="1275" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvGoMBdpYyOJcUxd2wa-87RkevCCz3Jh31aobwruBX3QDet_OcfNDs2xPZpp8EYEGNZJubJrHskopu0Z0Ml5ZLUVWDS31Tf-UAkPxi4b5dKh0RhKExz12IskuQsY1pzfL6oed1_ITl9V9vsW17l8ZkDLJ4h1KKI0sLHN1RelJ-imblXIgcNIfRSvTv/s320/Weirdos_postcard_front_DSP.jpg" width="218" /></a></div>So <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0B768R49B/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i0">Weirdos</a> </i>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.<p></p><p>So far the only criticism has been... well, predictable, really--it's one I'm used to and always makes me smile a little. </p><p>I dared to mention gas and poop.</p><p>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.</p><p>We are human animals.</p><p>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?</p><p>But all of that love and divinity and angelic kindness is attached to a very real, very fallible, very <i>human </i>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.</p><p>And still, we love. </p><p>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 brother 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 brother'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.</p><p>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?</p><p>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. </p><p>A teleportation machine and a giant bathtub, obvs, but none of that was in the dusty campground.</p><p>"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."</p><p>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."</p><p>"But I'm SO GROSSSSSSSS!!!!"</p><p>"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." </p><p>"I was heading there," I sniffled.</p><p>"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."</p><p>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.</p><p>A week and a half ago I brought COVID home from Houston and shared. 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. </p><p>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.</p><p>Which the long explanation of why my characters often laugh at fart jokes, and sometimes mention poop.</p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-83450816727855728322022-08-09T14:47:00.000-07:002022-08-09T14:47:29.399-07:00Dog Walking<p> 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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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!) </p><p>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."</p><p>And sometimes, that's the best advice a friend can give.</p><p>Have a good week everybody!</p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-14969819923858710912022-07-27T00:44:00.002-07:002022-07-27T00:44:42.860-07:00Fish in a Barrel<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXqK_1yxCZUelPOg9XB6vsVj5ubIMip5_24uIPzB-mkF0tbxWPc9wbFw2GAaHJ_pzZaZQGYzhjsJrELojDOc2atan6vzDcjoQiWFDrjVk26hyy3iOQx9R9_3j8nazxyU5ivHZeS8TEifwtuWu37GDxJNeNERl0KCihfd4xHmM27DuMuV-qatFgW29g/s1875/FishInABarrel_postcard_front_DSP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1875" data-original-width="1275" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXqK_1yxCZUelPOg9XB6vsVj5ubIMip5_24uIPzB-mkF0tbxWPc9wbFw2GAaHJ_pzZaZQGYzhjsJrELojDOc2atan6vzDcjoQiWFDrjVk26hyy3iOQx9R9_3j8nazxyU5ivHZeS8TEifwtuWu37GDxJNeNERl0KCihfd4xHmM27DuMuV-qatFgW29g/s320/FishInABarrel_postcard_front_DSP.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><br /><br /> 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.<p></p><p>But I DO need to remember to post about new releases.</p><p>I did a HUGE breakdown of the Fishiverse <a href="https://www.patreon.com/posts/cotton-flophouse-64815828">HERE</a>, back when Constantly Cotton was released, and people really seemed to enjoy being walked through the connections and byways of the evolution of Fish. <i>Fish in a Barrel </i>has some of those byways cooked in--Henry (of <i>Fish on a Bicycle </i>and <i>Shades of Henry) </i>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 <i>lot </i>of ficlets in the last two years. </p><p>And I <i>really </i>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.</p><p>But <i>Fish in a Barrel </i>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.</p><p>So I hope you enjoy the Fishiverse--and I especially hope you love <i>Fish in a Barrel. </i></p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkEZyH-fJXfq_r2qOiU_U8LoOLYcmRqeoZ6CeC2jG6NQ2Ld1qlBzreiBf36VGyexLEd-QrcLO0WhBG-3jdJFOWg7Wfc3WYyye5tpJeA7ZNd0NVzo0Sj9i3aZKCkFAhNcPRaZMdVdAvXVPzL620FvftvQNORU0kXKp52uyRXDDWQN40cNSYBWKe6kl/s468/FishInABarrel_headerbanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="60" data-original-width="468" height="41" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifkEZyH-fJXfq_r2qOiU_U8LoOLYcmRqeoZ6CeC2jG6NQ2Ld1qlBzreiBf36VGyexLEd-QrcLO0WhBG-3jdJFOWg7Wfc3WYyye5tpJeA7ZNd0NVzo0Sj9i3aZKCkFAhNcPRaZMdVdAvXVPzL620FvftvQNORU0kXKp52uyRXDDWQN40cNSYBWKe6kl/s320/FishInABarrel_headerbanner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;">Jackson and Ellery face their toughest case yet—against the criminal justice system itself.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;" /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17); color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;">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.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;" /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(15, 17, 17); color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;">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….</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0B311KWZ4/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p1_i0">BUY HERE </a></span></div><p></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-16309994699204338272022-07-26T23:57:00.000-07:002022-07-26T23:57:04.926-07:00I Can't Believe I Have to Say This But...<p> Oh my God. We'd made such strides. When I first started writing in this genre, there was an assumption that gay sex was somehow more taboo, dirtier, because it was between two people of the same gender. We worked--and we worked <i>hard--</i>to change that perception. I realize that a lot of M/M and F/F writers out there are new, and they still think, (teehee!) they write same sex couples, and isn't that titivating but they weren't there for the wars. They weren't there when the generation before mine was being JAILED for writing this genre. They weren't there when my wave of writers was losing our jobs, losing their children in custody disputes, losing their spouses and their relationships, because this was the genre they chose to write in, for whatever reason it appealed to them.</p><p>Many of the new generation weren't alive for the AIDs crisis--but I was.</p><p>And I had no idea how vast and how awful it was. I had to make Mate watch <i>And the Band Played On </i>because I was curious about it, and as the terribleness struck me, I was heartbroken for being late to the realization that this should never have happened. </p><p>When you're late to realizations like that, you can do so much harm.</p><p>So I'm going to say this, for the new people, for the people watching that bullshit take about Monkeypox take over Twitter, and for the new people who might say, "I'm an ally because fuck the Trumpers!" but who don't realize how long this fight has gone on, and how sometimes, when you hear insanity often enough, you have to shout out what's real to stay sane.</p><p>The LGBTQ community is NOT into pedophilia--the odds of a gay man being a sex offender are SIGNIFICANTLY LESS than the odds of a straight cis pastor, priest, or Boy Scout leader being a sex offender. Gay people DON'T GROOM children to be gay. Straight people have gay children all the time. Gay people have straight children. Kids hit puberty, shit gets real, and they realize who they're attracted to, what their sexuality REALLY is, and whether or not the standard cis heterosexual mode is THEIR life or just the life their parents thought they should live. Does it happen before that? Hell yes. If I could have a crush on Speed Racer or Randolph Mantooth when I was five, then a little boy could have a crush on Captain America or Iron Man and a little girl could have a crush on Wonder Woman today, and it will seem perfectly normal to them, right up until their parents beat them for being queer.</p><p>And Monkeypox is NOT AN STD. Good God. The World Health Organization should be BEATEN for the way they presented that information. Just saying.</p><p>When I wrote <i>Crafting Category, </i>I wrote a section about "nope tropes"-- tropes that had started out as something necessary in society but had become harmful in recent years. One of these is Gay For You. In the book I said that if people who don't know better READ this trope, they will believe that being gay is a matter of choice. If the characters in the book are ONLY IN LOVE with that ONE GUY, they could choose to be in love with a woman and being gay is a choice. </p><p>IT'S. NOT. And in the increasingly toxic post Trump world in which many states are going after LGBTQ rights like it's squirrel season and they got a new pellet gun, writing books that slant that way, and BELIEVING that way can be dangerous for people who are born to be who they're born to be. If sexuality and gender are a "choice" and not a bone-deep reality, then politicians willingly sacrifice rights, dignity, and humanity on the altar of their vanity, and the LGBTQ community is being pursued by pitchforks once again.</p><p>Allies are not immune. WRITERS are not immune--but more importantly, if allies or writers posit that being LGBTQ is a choice, they are doing harm to the community that is feeding them. </p><p>This is the nature of exploitation--no matter how unwitting. </p><p>So I can't believe I have to say this, but LGBTQ people have one agenda: to be treated like people. That needs to be the ally's agenda too. </p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-10736600770996410982022-06-24T12:08:00.001-07:002022-06-24T12:08:44.030-07:00Choices<p> I'm so angry.</p><p>Every woman in America should be this angry--but some of you aren't and now I'm pissed at you.</p><p>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 turning with HOW FUCKING DARE THEY. </p><p>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."</p><p>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?"</p><p>Who the fuck are they?</p><p>Who the fuck was <i>I</i>? </p><p>And like that, I realized why my parents had protested the government. </p><p>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.</p><p>But it was not all baby glow and universe juice.</p><p>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. </p><p>I MADE A CHOICE TO HAVE THIS BABY. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>Mine. </p><p>And fuck anybody who tried to take that choice away from me.</p><p>Fuck them now. <i style="font-weight: bold;">FUCK. THEM. </i>How dare they. </p><p>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?</p><p>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.</p><p>The overturning of Roe V. Wade is that evil. It's that pernicious. It's that <i style="font-weight: bold;">GROSS. </i><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>And I don't have any answers besides vote and donate and shake my chubby fist at the sky and howl.</p><p>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 bladder sout 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. </p><p>I just want you all to know how WE feel.</p><p>Sincerely, women everywhere. </p><p>The end.</p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-85814977185228703852022-06-10T01:01:00.000-07:002022-06-10T01:01:09.947-07:00Fuckcess and Sailure<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-cOcZmxxyjBCzwQW84Di0Nu3z1ShB915Za2t7BHRRi9DcHsylVOWgUhMAzCsWqwPErIxcTG0_GFASgMNHNUg9wnHIqBAbDckeH-98CVam_0-C5aqtiuDJFlvylB9EMz6ewpLmH2cjbz2t93IAxKffm3nsIiWzhOxoirf8ILq8PqotAZZp32YRXlQ/s640/IMG_1867.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-cOcZmxxyjBCzwQW84Di0Nu3z1ShB915Za2t7BHRRi9DcHsylVOWgUhMAzCsWqwPErIxcTG0_GFASgMNHNUg9wnHIqBAbDckeH-98CVam_0-C5aqtiuDJFlvylB9EMz6ewpLmH2cjbz2t93IAxKffm3nsIiWzhOxoirf8ILq8PqotAZZp32YRXlQ/s320/IMG_1867.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> 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."<p></p><p>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.</p><p>And while I was outlining the course, I stumbled upon the idea of Fuckcesses and Sailures. </p><p>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. </p><p>And a capper, I believe the entire garment was done with popcorn stitches, which looked like giant growths in the giant fluffy yarn.</p><p>Oh--and if it was cold enough to wear an alpaca dress, leaving the shoulders bare would result in some serious frostbite.</p><p>But the dress was very pretty in the picture. <i style="font-weight: bold;">That </i>my friends, is a Fuck-cess.</p><p>We've all had them. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnhFeYHyxawOg_o17d4PB84Ifad4SOdUBre8L8Hqg21ECqUHr7b-jnjrARxOT5scs05VBW3-mscxGfko3LEDm54eEtevO_D1NdJWnBDwdnDvW8xHXTC0TI5n_2XfqBL610iEyYW0C36rq0yOj8kRxlTKUFaNsY7dG3TK9M1PTIUEnk2yLCd7TcM_1/s640/IMG_1866.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnhFeYHyxawOg_o17d4PB84Ifad4SOdUBre8L8Hqg21ECqUHr7b-jnjrARxOT5scs05VBW3-mscxGfko3LEDm54eEtevO_D1NdJWnBDwdnDvW8xHXTC0TI5n_2XfqBL610iEyYW0C36rq0yOj8kRxlTKUFaNsY7dG3TK9M1PTIUEnk2yLCd7TcM_1/s320/IMG_1866.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>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. </p><p>As opposed to our part of California which is slowly sinking into oblivion because of drought and climate change.</p><p>Yeah. This sweater is a FUCKCESS. Did everything I wanted it to and nothing I needed it for. Ta-da!</p><p>So that's one side of the coin.</p><p>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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JpRO6NYTneJNyyUIf_eOBCvww5J-lNiyNYbQyvW9hzGqOGE6tMTldBqRlQrRCdNpO9IFA6JkOpudL5OSI56J7cPZ5zDpkKXwQSDiUFCSSibNRFhuWY8sMGHrIBNYb4KgxAMEzUTZG4HTS2kJbuz14_BP9N2wZIDFh-DJ9DHcOaWHX47IDVsxjypw/s640/IMG_1865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JpRO6NYTneJNyyUIf_eOBCvww5J-lNiyNYbQyvW9hzGqOGE6tMTldBqRlQrRCdNpO9IFA6JkOpudL5OSI56J7cPZ5zDpkKXwQSDiUFCSSibNRFhuWY8sMGHrIBNYb4KgxAMEzUTZG4HTS2kJbuz14_BP9N2wZIDFh-DJ9DHcOaWHX47IDVsxjypw/s320/IMG_1865.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>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.</p><p>Sailures do not get layouts in magazines. They're not often on the blogs of knitting designers or geniuses. But they are unequivocally loved. </p><p>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. </p><p>As did the extra twist in the infinity portion of the scarf, giving it almost a knot as opposed to an infinity twist. </p><p>Now, I'd keep this myself--iI 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."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzJa-HvF1WTI7qqs34haONUvq_KUuB9zYf_bW2R1oApxaTHpJMKX03_VhSW_2muk4qTZiWmYcF4xmdzUI2BHv8-kB5sf1UysfMucxaLuMPg6CxMek22-pdMYUHEVR5Yewss747gjAh37-JX7yPNy5Jq8Fj1gg-jlAVyw1Un3qyYH7T0xnFRd_Vrd-/s640/IMG_1863.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzJa-HvF1WTI7qqs34haONUvq_KUuB9zYf_bW2R1oApxaTHpJMKX03_VhSW_2muk4qTZiWmYcF4xmdzUI2BHv8-kB5sf1UysfMucxaLuMPg6CxMek22-pdMYUHEVR5Yewss747gjAh37-JX7yPNy5Jq8Fj1gg-jlAVyw1Un3qyYH7T0xnFRd_Vrd-/s320/IMG_1863.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>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.<p></p><p>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.</p><p>She sees SUCCESS, and I see SAILURE. </p><p>And sometimes it's okay to just let the F in "failure" sail right by.<br /><br /><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-23453622503204937232022-06-08T00:22:00.003-07:002022-06-08T00:22:38.692-07:00Trickster gods and Murder birds: Long Con, the Suit<p> </p><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="8b19c-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="8b19c-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg57NdDfAo7LyuXxtR-mEmi8bvv_jcmxGRNe6fqWjca9VkeTQ9K2qftoKDONxXNQ4d8LIPO1MOxkhu8ivp5CfkSG_brqf2PxFFGazxzdTra-LmqUAJEn-FGxpV04WUjvFX4qwjmtvbYnxwC4mFsVUn1qxiYL5BIpU1UNwoZxpngpewSdkf6tOSLaNz7/s1875/TheSuit_postcard_front_DSP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1875" data-original-width="1275" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg57NdDfAo7LyuXxtR-mEmi8bvv_jcmxGRNe6fqWjca9VkeTQ9K2qftoKDONxXNQ4d8LIPO1MOxkhu8ivp5CfkSG_brqf2PxFFGazxzdTra-LmqUAJEn-FGxpV04WUjvFX4qwjmtvbYnxwC4mFsVUn1qxiYL5BIpU1UNwoZxpngpewSdkf6tOSLaNz7/s320/TheSuit_postcard_front_DSP.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><br /><span data-offset-key="8b19c-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="bqrlu-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="bqrlu-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="bqrlu-0-0">Sometimes, I feel like I'm the only one out there who loves the heist subgenre--but I can't help it. I ADORE IT--and while it's mostly found in movies, it has its roots deep in literature and our oldest myths.</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="f2h7d-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="f2h7d-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="f2h7d-0-0">I know for me, it started with Barry Hughart's </span><span data-offset-key="f2h7d-0-1" style="font-style: italic;">The Flower and the Stone, </span><span data-offset-key="f2h7d-0-2">which featured a premier thief/prostitute who would go seduce jewels away from a man or a woman in the name of the good that Ox and Master Li were doing, and simply saunter up with the needed tchotchke. </span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="6uos0-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="6uos0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="6uos0-0-0">"Where did you get that?" they would ask.</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="ctl3u-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="ctl3u-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="ctl3u-0-0">"I'm a very bad man."</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="3cgd0-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="3cgd0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3cgd0-0-0">"Oh--you ARE a very, very bad man."</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="abf2h-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="abf2h-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="abf2h-0-0">Except he WASN'T. He was a very GOOD man who played fast and loose with the law to get justice.</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="297p7-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="297p7-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="297p7-0-0">That concept was just so delicious!</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="3klk4-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="3klk4-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3klk4-0-0">Indigenous Peoples loved this idea--there was a Coyote or Crow myth for every tribe. Coyote, the trickster god, was their </span><span data-offset-key="3klk4-0-1" style="font-style: italic;">favorite. </span><span data-offset-key="3klk4-0-2">And he wasn't just out there to make the bigger, more powerful gods learn humility, either. While it's true that sometimes Coyote got his ass handed to him on a platter, in the end, his ultimate goal was to lead The People to safety, to the place under the stars, where they wouldn't need to worry about pain and sorrow any more. In some tribes he foretold the apocalypse--and in some tribes he saved The People from the coming doom. And in some tribes he stopped it altogether, because he wanted to play with those on earth.</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="npve-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="npve-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="npve-0-0">But that didn't mean he couldn't play merry hell with the self-important other gods while he was waiting for the big battle.</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="beba-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="beba-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="beba-0-0">There is something almost compulsively sexy about a trickster god or goddess. They're a scoundrel, a rake, a seductor--or seductress. The trickster often flirts with gender, sexuality and the societal bounds that we all yearn to cross. Loki spent six years as a mare--where he got bred by another god and gave birth. Cupid changed form in order to seduce Psyche in the dark. The Egyptian god Seth went from married male god to the gay party god depending on his story--and Bugs Bunny, the ultimate American trickster god, looked damned fine in a dress. And men </span><span data-offset-key="beba-0-1" style="font-style: italic;">and </span><span data-offset-key="beba-0-2">women would follow a playful, coy Kitsune into adventure. And people root for these gods in their adventures--they go places that the ordinary farmer can't.</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="1r9j3-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="1r9j3-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="1r9j3-0-0">In the first book of the Long Con series, Stirling (whose book I am writing RIGHT now) asks Danny--the original Mastermind--"Are we good guys or bad guys?"</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="3un1-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="3un1-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3un1-0-0">Danny tells him they are tricksters. They're there to give things a bit of a push towards both chaos and good. The chaos is the fun part--but the good is what drives them all.</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="ceijk-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="ceijk-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="ceijk-0-0">So that's what I keep in mind in this series--but of course that's not my only inspiration--and I've made this very clear. In my real life I tend not to see queer couples absolutely everywhere--I've done a lot of mental matches of het couples as well. We all exist on the same sphere, right? That said, </span><span data-offset-key="ceijk-0-1" style="font-style: italic;">Ocean's 11, Leverage, </span><span data-offset-key="ceijk-0-2">and </span><span data-offset-key="ceijk-0-3" style="font-style: italic;">The Italian Job </span><span data-offset-key="ceijk-0-4">all had their moments when I said to myself, "Naw... Charlie and Left-Ear were definitely a thing," or "Parker, Hardison, </span><span data-offset-key="ceijk-0-5" style="font-style: italic;">and </span><span data-offset-key="ceijk-0-6">Elliot could totally have made it work," or--and I felt this very strongly--"Danny and Rusty just have to admit that their love for each other surpasses all other love."</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="1ls09-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="1ls09-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="1ls09-0-0">That's not to say that Charlie and Stella didn't make a very nice couple, and Parker and Hardison have done great things--but Rusty and Danny will forever be head canon, and I wanted to write a series that did </span><span data-offset-key="1ls09-0-1" style="font-style: italic;">that. </span><span data-offset-key="1ls09-0-2">"Yeah, sure--they are all gay, and the gay gang gets bigger with every book. But the adventures are fun and the hijinks ensue and the banter is dry and surprising. </span><span data-offset-key="1ls09-0-3" style="font-style: italic;">That </span><span data-offset-key="1ls09-0-4">is the book series I want to write."</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="eh3ai-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="eh3ai-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="eh3ai-0-0">And that really came together in this installments. It has old family revenge, noble quests, buried pain, true love, action sequences and murder birds-- what's not to like?</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="85q4k-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="85q4k-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="85q4k-0-0">And it also has one of my top twenty favorite couples of all time. </span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="99u1l-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="99u1l-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="99u1l-0-0">Michael is one of the sweetest, most adorable, most </span><span data-offset-key="99u1l-0-1" style="font-style: italic;">innocent </span><span data-offset-key="99u1l-0-2">characters I think I've ever written--and he spent two years in prison for armed robbery. Carl assumes he's the boring second-ran of the very flamboyant Salinger crew but he is constantly proving that his very practical mind can run a surprising straight line when everybody else is trying for curves. I loved putting these two men together and seeing something very pure--and very unbreakable--emerge between them. </span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="a0uh3-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="a0uh3-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="a0uh3-0-0">But they're still tricksters-Carl possibly even more than Michael, although he'll never be arrested in his life. </span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="8ahe3-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="8ahe3-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="8ahe3-0-0">They're smart and sexy and a little unpredictable, and they're forces for chaos </span><span data-offset-key="8ahe3-0-1" style="font-style: italic;">and </span><span data-offset-key="8ahe3-0-2">good.</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="b3gat-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="b3gat-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="b3gat-0-0">That's my kind of love story right there--I hope you love it too.</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="ame98-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="ame98-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="ame98-0-0">You can find it here: </span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="a97tt-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="a97tt-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="a97tt-0-0">https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09Y6BLZNT/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p1_i0</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="48fqe-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="48fqe-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="48fqe-0-0">https://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/books/the-suit-by-amy-lane-12141-b</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="2vj8l-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="2vj8l-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="2vj8l-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="cdqbl-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="cdqbl-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="cdqbl-0-0">https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-suit-amy-lane/1140922972?ean=9781641083751</span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="5ahic-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="5ahic-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="5ahic-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="6iogr-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr" data-offset-key="6iogr-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="6iogr-0-0"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div class="DraftEditor-paragraphElement" data-block="true" data-editor="9n2n1" data-offset-key="fmdt3-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #241e12; font-family: aktiv-grotesk, -apple-system, system-ui, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Oxygen-Sans, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Helvetica Neue", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; margin: 1em 0px; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-15717361624402214062022-05-16T00:28:00.000-07:002022-05-16T00:28:24.966-07:00Hair Cut<p> "So what can I do for you?"</p><p>"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.</p><p>"Okay, we'll do a little texturizing--"</p><p>"BY ALL THAT'S HOLY DON'T TOUCH THOSE WEIRD SCISSORS!"</p><p>"Okay, okay--touch-ee! How do you propose I thin your hair out?"</p><p>"Layers."</p><p>"Are you sure?"</p><p>"Lots of layers. Do NOT massacre my hair with those things."</p><p>"Fine. Layers aren't going to do it."</p><p>"They have in the past."</p><p>"How about if I buzz cut your back and--"</p><p>"Oh God."</p><p>"And do a little stacking here--"</p><p>"Please God, not the iron throne in the back--"</p><p>"And wings! All girls love wings!"</p><p>"Please, for the love of God could you layer the front?"</p><p>"Layer how--bangs?"</p><p>"THAT'S NOT LAYERING."</p><p>"You know, you're being awfully picky for someone who didn't know what they wanted."</p><p>"A layered bob."</p><p>"I don't think you know what that is."</p><p>"Well four out of ten hair stylists hear those words and do what I ask."</p><p>"What did they do differently?"</p><p>"More than one layer in the back of my head, and a flirty little layer in the front."</p><p>"That's not really a haircut."</p><p>"It was if you grew up in the 80's."</p><p>"No, seriously, this will look better."</p><p>"Fuck it. I don't care. I don't have to look at me. Whatever."</p><p>"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."</p><p>"Fine."</p><p>"No, seriously, a little blowdrying, some curling, some product--"</p><p>"Look, I know we just met but do you see anything about me that would suggest that's going to happen?"</p><p>"Well you don't live in a cave."</p><p>"Not by choice."</p><p>"Seriously--what do you think?"</p><p>"Please tell me you sell scrunchies."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Then it's fine."</p><p>"But--"</p><p>"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."</p><p>"But if you don't like it--"</p><p>"If you touch those texturizing scissors I'll stab you with them."</p><p>"Who hurt you?"</p><p>"PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW HOW TO LAYER!"</p><p>"Fine, tip?"</p><p>"20% okay?"</p><p>"And this is why we don't layer."</p><p>"Keep the change."</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-33802148439831003152022-05-04T00:16:00.000-07:002022-05-04T00:16:05.307-07:00Whining Me<p> I sang my pain into the ether</p><p>Disgusted by my whine</p><p>My troubles are so tiny</p><p>Not worth sorry, not worth time</p><p>Tell your troubles to the river</p><p>The river carries on</p><p>People have their own loads</p><p>It's important to keep calm</p><p>But I had a moment's weakness</p><p>(Let's face it--there's been more)</p><p>And I made my pain a banner</p><p>For a friend to see--or two, or four</p><p>Or more and more or more</p><p>And I hid my face against my pillow</p><p>Embarrassed by my pain</p><p>For the trifling of my sorrow</p><p>And vowed not to sing again.</p><p>But I sang my pain into the ether</p><p>And my friends didn't think I whined</p><p>I'd forgotten that in sorrow</p><p>True friends--the best of friends--are never less than kind.</p><p><br /></p><p>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.</p><p>Thank you.</p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-78894164441179782872022-05-03T00:14:00.000-07:002022-05-03T00:14:22.197-07:00Disposable Humans<p> Knees ache. Fingers ache. Today I could actually hear my crepitus <i>echo. </i>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?"</p><p>And at that moment my knee gives a giant pop.</p><p>And I start to cry.</p><p>"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."</p><p>"You'e not stupid."</p><p>"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."</p><p>"I'm not throwing you away."</p><p>"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."</p><p>"No. Nobody's getting thrown away."</p><p>"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 <i>is </i>no other side of the story."</p><p>"Well, those are Twitter people. They're like Sicarians (sic) in <i>Guardians of the Galaxy. </i>They're like paper people. In real life you could kick their asses with no knees."</p><p>"In real life I couldn't kick their asses when I <i>had </i>knees."</p><p>"Well, you've always been a pacifist."</p><p>"True. Even when it meant getting my ass kicked."</p><p>"And you always got up again."</p><p>*sniffles * "I just need more help right now."</p><p>"I'll help. I swear I won't throw you away."</p><p>*more sniffles* "Even though I'm stupid enough to get fat?"</p><p>"Swear."</p><p>"Good."</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-7334375728305390242022-04-19T01:19:00.002-07:002022-04-19T01:19:53.681-07:00Happy happy...<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrKGovLfUbzlvIQqC_zI6iiep2LtoVBNVOTzTW--vjCIMsn-WlW_cmOodsEGmuIQ79RhXATLVvtw0mbDI5z8VvgCJmBj14rauV3jKPek7k7n_9Rj8nGZXhiIkOZGniYYufiKb5D4r6z3U-2Nfr_9nbyE1hlviRe2PkXuSK-fMscm0Ts5K1XCF8M5k/s640/IMG_7692.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="640" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrKGovLfUbzlvIQqC_zI6iiep2LtoVBNVOTzTW--vjCIMsn-WlW_cmOodsEGmuIQ79RhXATLVvtw0mbDI5z8VvgCJmBj14rauV3jKPek7k7n_9Rj8nGZXhiIkOZGniYYufiKb5D4r6z3U-2Nfr_9nbyE1hlviRe2PkXuSK-fMscm0Ts5K1XCF8M5k/s320/IMG_7692.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> 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!<p></p><p>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!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPn37nnBqacthWmXxwTT1fwjXA-UdOry3gxgpTWICA4Ng0QaRMUYm_dXddpl6apxsFzriGf1l_ej16O1Bj292gQNrCwlxQuZk5zC9bt5vEroPYfGASxAlUTsIdwvDpAIdgJndQakxuj4_B00VlHAFe7a9ovqt6Oo9gJyNv2dEP0XVz_M7dwX20MXd/s640/IMG_7676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxPn37nnBqacthWmXxwTT1fwjXA-UdOry3gxgpTWICA4Ng0QaRMUYm_dXddpl6apxsFzriGf1l_ej16O1Bj292gQNrCwlxQuZk5zC9bt5vEroPYfGASxAlUTsIdwvDpAIdgJndQakxuj4_B00VlHAFe7a9ovqt6Oo9gJyNv2dEP0XVz_M7dwX20MXd/w155-h206/IMG_7676.jpg" width="155" /></a></div><p></p><p>Saturday was my oldest son's--Big T's--engagement party.</p><p>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. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLm73xIzVFhWpzOhqMuROO13Gkfpv7NQjXCexD-WfeFl7R_PLB_u2GPGlmqCPXKf-9pIqWA_bvEoPp-p6JsX9loibyVdTNgdOAOKNvZOOl7mx2l3WXVrz4-p0Hw3vY0N2nxpc2Xmy0MoycC2tpdL8g7vw98BYpMxi8piUlwsYeCGRPobtpE0HJgzn/s640/IMG_7627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLm73xIzVFhWpzOhqMuROO13Gkfpv7NQjXCexD-WfeFl7R_PLB_u2GPGlmqCPXKf-9pIqWA_bvEoPp-p6JsX9loibyVdTNgdOAOKNvZOOl7mx2l3WXVrz4-p0Hw3vY0N2nxpc2Xmy0MoycC2tpdL8g7vw98BYpMxi8piUlwsYeCGRPobtpE0HJgzn/w242-h181/IMG_7627.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>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. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89z-vw7AebhYixXfVz4TugbVSOmtWfd4jsnLCHKtbd1SDGkedvUdL97XlXgDDlK7TBvTSTdpCpXxLosKJ7XLDUoK1TzagXkjaqnTPFaMZjFCaR46pqucqUExZH3rwZ7btDDDMay2cK4sNvhrMlVeANvbxK3PhAXUtiPtMwEAWC2JmxbCuJIYp3Hi5/s640/IMG_7626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj89z-vw7AebhYixXfVz4TugbVSOmtWfd4jsnLCHKtbd1SDGkedvUdL97XlXgDDlK7TBvTSTdpCpXxLosKJ7XLDUoK1TzagXkjaqnTPFaMZjFCaR46pqucqUExZH3rwZ7btDDDMay2cK4sNvhrMlVeANvbxK3PhAXUtiPtMwEAWC2JmxbCuJIYp3Hi5/w211-h158/IMG_7626.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>So that's what I said for my toast (except better, cause I write sometimes.)<p></p><p>Anyway--for their engagement present they got wedding crocs.</p><p>Yes, I know, classy. </p><p>But you have to understand.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7nOGTQzeOH35byagasZp1MHQJ1CWV6sxQUmYIRGWCWIoooJyYMQLq-gMNyC6XEdrzc87kr5leScghHwXJ0PVwgkfVa1Tpfl9ss5BeKYcWO4ZQygBSzVnDdTMJ1kic3Qp_Ahbn1fh-du6xE2ZCwnJeNg4U7p2uzW7kVazJoaRPShxmDxFGbmL8GU5r/s640/IMG_0265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7nOGTQzeOH35byagasZp1MHQJ1CWV6sxQUmYIRGWCWIoooJyYMQLq-gMNyC6XEdrzc87kr5leScghHwXJ0PVwgkfVa1Tpfl9ss5BeKYcWO4ZQygBSzVnDdTMJ1kic3Qp_Ahbn1fh-du6xE2ZCwnJeNg4U7p2uzW7kVazJoaRPShxmDxFGbmL8GU5r/w212-h159/IMG_0265.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>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>I </i>get a pair?"<p></p><p>So that's four of us. Wearing crocs. </p><p>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!"</p><p>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.</p><p>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--<i>Wedding </i>crocs.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDir59YpYuSjyoy5IubsGb4hKOlP9D5hSHMSsN2jwo5c-Oo5h4BCaWxZXYXG7M-Tr2b4s0uiN89KPMOvgZbfpIDJv9NKWZcBfPhl9hXynm0rkLGQ3y-K34pxhXdZf4j0wXcY-BgOvbxcy6KHxpM5SHi6vQjts_sbNq6nsQ-yrNBG3bwzWzMD2_8lrU/s640/IMG_0276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDir59YpYuSjyoy5IubsGb4hKOlP9D5hSHMSsN2jwo5c-Oo5h4BCaWxZXYXG7M-Tr2b4s0uiN89KPMOvgZbfpIDJv9NKWZcBfPhl9hXynm0rkLGQ3y-K34pxhXdZf4j0wXcY-BgOvbxcy6KHxpM5SHi6vQjts_sbNq6nsQ-yrNBG3bwzWzMD2_8lrU/s320/IMG_0276.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>They were adorable. Also, I got Beautiful A the fuzzy ones, because that's some nice shit there.<p></p><p>So we had a big weekend--and my kids were happy. And my dad and stepmom were happy.</p><p>And Mate and I were happy.</p><p>And that doesn't happen as often as it could, so Happy Easter everybody. </p><p>May we all get our moments of chocolate, ham, and pretty sunny picnics on a Sunday afternoon.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-44666062716241251482022-04-04T15:31:00.000-07:002022-04-04T15:31:50.993-07:00Ten Things That Don't Look Like Writing But Are<p> We've all seen the memes--Jim Carrey typing madly at the computer, looking possessed. The cat, paws flying, putting in that order for never-ending catnip. The old-style author, with the pipe and the whiskey and the old S-electric typewriter. Even the odd Shakespeare or Byron, with fingers stained with oak gall ink from the carved quill nub.</p><p>When people envision a writer at work, they envision some sort of <i>industry. </i>After all, writers are constantly whining about how <i>hard </i>it all is--shouldn't it at least <i>look </i>like we're working?</p><p>There's a word in this trade... fairly important... *snaps arthritic sausage fingers* What is it? Oh yeah.</p><p>Irony.</p><p>Ironically enough, some of the most productive moments writers have happen when it looks like they're doing something <i>completely </i>different. Here are ten things that it <i>looks </i>like I'm doing when I am, in fact, writing.</p><p>#10--Wandering around the house, talking to myself. My husband used to ask if I was yelling at him--or the kids--in my mind when he saw me having an obviously intense conversation with someone who wasn't in front of me. "Nope," I'd say. "I'm writing." He was usually very relieved.</p><p>#9--Doing the laundry. A. It's so boring it feels like I should be doing <i>something </i>else productive while I'm doing it, and B. See Item #10. Wandering around the house with a laundry basket is a perfect opportunity in which to talk to one's self. True fax. </p><p>#8--Doing the dishes. Yes, you may be sensing a theme here about housework. Before I make my list more than ten items I may as well add vacuuming, sweeping, and cooking to the list. But not organizing--organizing actually uses brain power for me, and I can't <i>organize </i>my house to clean it if I'm trying to have multiple conversations simultaneously in my head. Which is probably why my house is an epic disaster zone. </p><p>#7--Walking the dogs. Yes, much of the time I'm listening to an audiobook or music, but there are times when I shut all that off because my brain is too busy. The fun thing about this one is that even though it's basically the same thing as wandering around and talking to myself, it doesn't <i>look </i>like it because there are dogs. Because there are dogs, it looks like exercise. Win/win.</p><p>#6--Taking a shower. I mean, we've all washed that shit before, right? And this way nobody can <i>see </i>that you're actually engaged in #10. It's like a little cubicle with relaxing warm water and good smells, all designed to send you to other planets where you can have intense conversations with the people in your head.</p><p>#5--Applying hand cream. Extra points if it's some sort of liniment for arthritic sausage fingers, because then it looks like self care, when it's really a chance to sit at my desk and talk to myself--although usually a fill-in-the-gap measure, for little sentences to get you to the next big exciting part.</p><p>#4--Cleaning the desk. Seriously--have you <i>seen </i>my house? Why would my desk be even close to clean if there wasn't some sort of underlying <i>writing </i>need behind all of that organization and dusting. Also, it helps to get the cat dander out from between the keyboard letters so it's not so hard to push down on them with my arthritic sausage fingers.</p><p>#3--Staring into space. This is really just wandering around the house talking to myself but sitting flat on my ass with my mouth closed.</p><p>#2--Getting a snack. Write write write! Pause, stare into space, put on some hand cream... transitional phrase! Now on to the next part but first... I need cheesy-poofs. Get up, get cheesy-poofs, and by the time I'm back, with a little detour to refresh my fizzy water and ice, I have the next exciting part ready to type out. See? It only <i>looks </i>like cheesy-poofs and no willpower, but in reality it's actually part of a much grander scheme.</p><p>#1--Napping. Or resting my eyes. Or, you know, staring into space with my eyes closed while imaginary people have conversations in my head about what they're going to do next in my book. You know. Writing but without the keyboard.</p><p>Yeah--I only <i>wish </i>I looked like the Jim Carrey gif when I was writing. Looking at this list, there is absolutely nothing to distinguish me from the everyday sort of chubby lunatic in a hoarder house full of yarn... except the book at the end.</p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-49641651506071519072022-03-24T01:40:00.004-07:002022-03-24T01:40:59.315-07:00The. End.<p><span style="background-color: white;"> <span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;">The. End.</span></span></p><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7j5d2" data-offset-key="911sq-0-0" style="font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="911sq-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="911sq-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="7j5d2" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-thickness: initial; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">So, The Luck Mechanics, book 1, is complete and I'm super excited. Yes, because I love finishing a book but because my life exploded, and for a little while there I couldn't write. My brain was too overloaded with other things--not to mention my life was too busy with consequences of those things.</span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I was so relieved that, after life settled down again, the writing was there, waiting for me to come back to it, and it hadn't been stopped forever. What I had wasn't writers block, really--I knew where the book was going and what I had to do to get there--it was terminal distraction. I had good reason to be distracted, and I wasn't going to beat myself up for it, but to find that it wasn't permanent...</span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I cannot contain my relief.</span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">So for those who see a bit of a hole in my release schedule next year, you'll know why. For a moment, real life really did overwhelm me. And I can't promise this book won't need a shitton of paint, some screen doors and a bit of a makeover from the inside out to work.</span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">But I'm proud of finishing--I'm SO proud of finishing. I've always prided myself on treating this like a profession and fulfilling the promises I make to my reader and my publisher, even when what I really want to do is knit and cry and watch NCIS (or whatever my hyper fixation at the time may be.)</span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I didn't do that. As soon as I could, I was back at the keyboard, even if I had to go gingerly because my arthritis had become a living breathing entity and not just a "some day when I get older" possibility. </span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I've been teaching a couple days a week for the past two weeks, and when I outlined ways for writers to help craft their stories I was reminded every time that I'd spent two and a half months writing a relatively short book and I wanted to cringe--and cry. But now I feel like I've lived up to those teachings, and that my professionalism has done me a service.</span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And I can sleep in, just a minute, before waking up to edit and submit.</span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="3m3m0-0-0" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And then I can start the next book (the Tech) because it's never "The End" when there's so much more to write.</span></div></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-91784022784186696832022-03-16T00:20:00.005-07:002022-03-16T00:20:46.839-07:00Miracles and Whatnot<p> Omg--I'm surprised I haven't told you all this already.</p><p>We cured the dog.</p><p>Okay--she wasn't sick, but I'm telling you, hauling that barking pack of Chi-who-whats through the park or through the neighborhood was starting to really wear at me. And we were the most hated dogs at the park. I mean, THE most hated dogs at the park. The lady with the boxer still curses our name whenever she sees us.</p><p>And then one day, I remembered the purple squirt bottle.</p><p>It's not much--small, meant for hair, fits in the hand. I bought it for this specific purpose, but I kept forgetting it and never used it and then, one day, I remembered it.</p><p>I swear, It took three squirts, maybe four, and suddenly...</p><p>We went from a rabid clatter of furry house demons to a... well, they're still the Chihuahua mafia, and they're still trying to carry out a hit on me and make my death look like an accident, BUT they haven't enlisted anymore homeowners or park walkers into their nefarious scheme.</p><p>In short? </p><p>They all shut the hell up.</p><p>I'm boggled. </p><p>I'm baffled.</p><p>I'm...</p><p>ELATED. </p><p>Oh my God. Walking at the park is a joy again. I'm so happy. </p><p>I haven't abused it, either. In fact, today I FORGOT IT. But it didn't matter. Literally a couple of squirts and Ginger and Carl have just remembered to shut the hell up.</p><p>It's blissful.</p><p>For the record? Geoffie? </p><p>Has not. </p><p>She thinks the water is just a happy little break from routine. Looks around, smiles, keeps on barking. But she still runs toward friends and rolls over to her back and exposes her stomach. I mean, Geoffie.</p><p>So there you go. A miracle. They're rare, but very satisfying.</p><p>And as for the whatnot?</p><p>I'm currently teaching my Crafting Category series in two places--one live, through the local junior college outreach, and one online, through the Paranormal Romance Guild. It's been a while since I gave classes--I'm sort of tickled. I gave my first live one in about two years, today, and they were super appreciative. I was so happy!</p><p>So, miracles and whatnot. </p><p>You can't count on them, but they sure are nice when they happen.</p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-83703325552627255442022-03-01T00:01:00.001-08:002022-03-01T00:01:14.778-08:00Oops...<p> So, uhm, recently I made a FB post about the analgesics I've been using to help me through the mother of all arthritis flares, and I have to admit--the CBD liniment has been a blessing. I'm not sure if it's the magic pot infusion or just the icy-hot coolness but it does have a certain immediate soothing quality--a quality of <i>doing something </i>for which I'm very grateful, particularly after I've been knitting in front of the television and then sit down to write. I mean there has been no "magic pill" so far-- Instaflex, Ibuprofen, analgesic cream, aqua aerobics, and sometimes, honestly, sitting an activity out or shortening my walk in lieu of the aqua have all gone into helping me to manage a situation that escalated more quickly than I anticipated.</p><p>But yeah. The cream helped.</p><p>Until today, when I learned a valuable esson.</p><p>I scooped out a bit much and was rubbing it into my hands, particularly around the knuckles, and I remembered my elbow joints were getting inflamed so I decided to put some there. Where the pain was. But first I did that thing women do when we're using moisturizer. You know, that thing where we rub the moisturizer into every bit of skin between point A and point B?</p><p>Forgetting, of course, that the skin on the backs of my arms is not in pain, and it's not inflamed and it is, in fact, quite tender...</p><p>And within a minute it was awash in the icy-hot flames of liniment vengeance as I tried to decide which sensation I hated most--the pain that was hindering my afternoon writing or the mentholyptic inferno that my skin had become.</p><p>I finally decided to just go nap. I could cover my arms with blankets to stop the icy-hot from enveloping my dermis and I could tuck my hands under my chin so the heat could ease up on the hand pain.</p><p>And I could resolve, ever so heartily, never to do that again.</p><p>When I awoke, the skin on my arms was back to normal--but so were my swollen joints. </p><p>*sigh* I'm really learning to count my blessings.</p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-55625848634162905242022-02-18T14:56:00.000-08:002022-02-18T14:56:22.130-08:00Girl Scout Cookies<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhq5I09J9ar5R8BsUqSbUD7Ux-bUvDi7_Tkvl6Lbk2Ehbvv0YTmiYhPOrjVBJ3u__szKaZLqwg7bincPEmD1HzU_Ghdh5QrzRwPW5HPKZGOrrs-3QWyXoMdAbrFGl0BkRK9KbcdHOG1ror99KbOKqvvf7_aIPuNkwDJDlWOP91_emztEVDyd92aUu30=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhq5I09J9ar5R8BsUqSbUD7Ux-bUvDi7_Tkvl6Lbk2Ehbvv0YTmiYhPOrjVBJ3u__szKaZLqwg7bincPEmD1HzU_Ghdh5QrzRwPW5HPKZGOrrs-3QWyXoMdAbrFGl0BkRK9KbcdHOG1ror99KbOKqvvf7_aIPuNkwDJDlWOP91_emztEVDyd92aUu30=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br />So, I don't know if I will ever talk about the thing.<p></p><p>I remember reading an essay of the Yarn Harlot's once--something had happened in her family that she didn't want to share--but she wanted to share the after-effect, which was simply, that for about two weeks, she was so heartbroken she couldn't even knit. There had been no death in the family, which she would have felt able to talk about, but that didn't mean there had been no grief. The essay detailed her and her husband going to the grocery store together because neither of them could think clearly enough for only one of them to go. "Our hearts were broken, that is all you need to know."</p><p>I'm going <br />with that approach. Start with last Tuesday, the 10th, and our hearts were broken--and go from there. In the last two weeks there have been trips and visits and meetings to deal with what happened that day. There has been an attempt to fix the breaking, to achieve equilibrium, to ensure against further breakage. There has been suppressed anger (we're white people who eat our feelings--no cookie is safe) and suppressed grief and mental and emotional exhaustion.</p><p>And a trip to the doctor's on my part that netted blood pressure medication and gel for my arthritis which is moderate--not mild--and currently kicking my ass. In the middle of all of the above vague posting, I couldn't walk for three days because my knee was threatening to go bone on bone. </p><p>Ou.</p><p>Ch.</p><p>And in the middle of that, someone backed into my car at the grocery store.</p><p>And I don't know how to explain my stress levels this week except to say that the fender bender came up in conversation on Sunday night and the whole family was like, "What? Wait, what? You didn't even mention--wait--what?"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhraQEGzpJdFKBYUkwa8V99ToacWIshx2m5jKnL4cBFh-CToU2P_srSm4OOkWSdWMdD9LdKxr9MKYilbNIC831mihdoayW6mh4xGz1IfW_vrQyhgRCb6f6sRg_O3UkuIYp8AwOt47OsiB7kdx1SrBoZ5WK-m6VVXbtTY9jvuB8ptsvbb-eQI21utLFm=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhraQEGzpJdFKBYUkwa8V99ToacWIshx2m5jKnL4cBFh-CToU2P_srSm4OOkWSdWMdD9LdKxr9MKYilbNIC831mihdoayW6mh4xGz1IfW_vrQyhgRCb6f6sRg_O3UkuIYp8AwOt47OsiB7kdx1SrBoZ5WK-m6VVXbtTY9jvuB8ptsvbb-eQI21utLFm=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>And I was like, "How important is the mildly munched door seam <i>really?"</i></p><p>And the whole fam went, "Oh. Yeah. See your point."</p><p>I'm aware that none of this came out on social media, btw, not even the small things, or the arthritis or the medication or any of that shit, because it was SO SMALL in relation to the other thing that I didn't feel like I could talk about one without talking about the other because it was unbearably private. And NOT talking about something often make it even more stressful... like I said. No cookie was safe.</p><p>Which brings me to today.</p><p>Two packages arrived today. </p><p>One had two skeins of absolutely stunning yarn which has, I think, been discontinued. Last Tuesday I started a project using this yarn having only one skein of it, and I realized that the skein wasn't going to create a shawl of the size I wanted so I found some at a small vendor and ordered it. </p><p>The other package was a giant box of Girl Scout Cookies. Four packages of Samoas at the least, Tagalongs, Lemon cookies... it was all there.</p><p>Mate didn't even bat an eyelash. </p><p>"After last week, my stress buying amounted to two skeins of yarn and 10 boxes of Girl Scout Cookies. That's really not bad," I said.</p><p>"Nope." </p><p>And then we both went back to trying to work. After he demolished a package of Samoas.</p><p>And for a moment, we're okay--the only cookies at risk have arrived by post, and really, they weren't long for this world anyway.</p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-38360387548549641832022-02-03T02:00:00.002-08:002022-02-03T02:00:39.749-08:00Banning Books<p>Ugh! Where to start, where to start, where to start...</p><p>It feels like all of my anecdotes have been told until they're ready to shrivel up and float away. I'm going to start with one that happened when I was in about eight grade.</p><p>My dad worked nights, and there was sort of a revolving paperback library where he worked, and sometimes he'd bring the books home. He brought one home and put it on top of the refrigerator. I was five-foot-six at the time--not my actual adult height, but definitely big enough to figure out the top of the refrigerator--and I pulled it down because, hey! Book! Right?</p><p>Oh no... you mustn't read <i>that </i>book. That book was a <i>mistake. </i>Dad shouldn't have brought that home.</p><p>Oh. Okay. I had some Tolkien, some Piers Anthony, some Lloyd Alexander--who needed whatever the hell that was, right?</p><p>Until my stepmom told me to burn it. </p><p>I was appalled, but she was like, "It's a super shitty book--and we don't need it floating around the house and the library won't take it. Just burn it with the rest of the burn barrel.</p><p>I was a good kid--I mean I <i>tried </i>to be a good kid. So I took it out to the burn barrel and threw the other stuff in and, well, sort of flipped through the book while I was burning everything else.</p><p>As an adult who writes adult books with sex in them, I will tell you right now that this one was the grossest sort of trash. I've read porn that left me a lot hotter and not nearly as soiled as this book. Racist, grossly pornographic, four-big-black-guys-in-an-anal-gangbang-without-lube sort of trash. </p><p>Yes, I remember the scene almost verbatim. </p><p>I, uhm, hadn't known a penis could go there until that very moment. </p><p>I threw the book into the fire, feeling a little nauseous, and watched it burn, the edges turning black and curling, the center turning to a glowing furnace of pulp wood and glue.</p><p>It was the first time I got why people might want to burn books. I couldn't seem to shake those words. They'd burned themselves into my brain.</p><p>They followed me. Every sex scene I read as a young adult was compared to that one. Every time two people kissed or had a breakup scene or someone did something "beyond the pale" in a book I read, I'd remember that scene.</p><p>When I wrote books and love scenes, I endeavored with all my soul to <i>not make </i>a scene that would leave people feeling the way that shitty book left me feeling.</p><p>And here's the thing. All of that could have been avoided if my stepmom, whom I trusted, had merely said, "I'd not the sex--it's the fact that the sex is demeaning to everyone involved. It gave me the oogies--I just don't want you to feel that way." </p><p>But no--I burned it. And in spite of seriously how bad the book was now I'm stuck with it burned in my mind.</p><p>So.</p><p>My feelings on the big book banning thing that's sweeping the South.</p><p>First of all, to the hysterical and ignorant parents driving this because you're afraid your precious straight white child is going to learn something you know nothing about: you filthy cowards. These aren't books that are trying to demean people, or trying to titillate them--they're trying to inform people on the diversity of American experience. Does this book make you feel bad as a white person? Well maybe try not to be such a shitty white person. Do LGBTQ folk scare you? Well maybe inform yourself about them by reading some of their voices and see that they are just people like you. Well, maybe not "you" as in the ignorant filthy racist extremists who think burning ALL THE BOOKS is a good idea. But they are people with compassion and fear and empathy, so they are people BETTER than "you" and I bet that's super scary too, right?</p><p>Read a book and get over it.</p><p>And second of all, you children aren't going to<i> not</i> read these books.</p><p>I guarantee your children will read these books. I read a tweet that said, "In sixth grade there was one copy of <i>Forever </i>that got passed around to every kid in the class." Yes. That. There was one copy of <i>Forever, </i>and one of <i>Deenie, </i>and if your parents bought you science fiction, you'd get to read Anne McCaffrey with gay couples and pregnancy surrogacy and "proddy green dragons" and there are a thousand authors out there that will write book your children will get their greedy little hands on and they will learn, and they will learn things that scare you and you will disagree with, and there's not a thing you can do to stop it from happening. </p><p>So there.</p><p>Just remember, people like you are the ones who took your children to see <i>ParaNorman </i>because it was an "animated children's film" and after watching 95% of a film dedicated to showing people why witch-hunts were bad got all bent out of shape when the hunky male teenager told Norman's sister that she'd like his boyfriend and they should all totally hang out. I'll never forget those ragey letters to the editor btw. "I just wanted to watch a wholesome movie about how we're all different and there were GAY characters in it! How DARE they?"</p><p>They dared because film and literature are always trying to break the barriers that keep humans trapped in their own hearts. That's what film and literature <i>do. </i>And it's scary.</p><p>It must be scary, or you idiots wouldn't be trying to ban that from happening--but just because it scares you doesn't mean its wrong.</p><p>Now let's go back to that book I burned. The one I remember. The one that, as an adult, I can't believe was actually published and distributed. I was fired for giving a student a book, and nothing in my book was anywhere as gross as this book, that any kid could get in a library.</p><p>But frankly, most kids wouldn't.</p><p>Most kids would be reading <i>Forever </i>or <i>Go Ask Alice </i>or <i>What About the Haynes Girl? </i>or any of the books that covered real life problems and resonated with teenagers and expanded their world.</p><p>Kids don't like reading trash--and they know the difference. They know what engages their hearts. They know what expands their world. They <i>know </i>what literature is. </p><p>And I'll tell you something--if the grossest sort of trash had such a profound effect (even if it was by negative example) on my psyche because my mother made me burn it, imagine--simply imagine--what effect <i>Maus </i>or any of the other banned books that idiots are freaking out about--will do when kids get their hands on them. And they <i>will </i>get their hands on them. They'll have Banned Book Clubs. They'll send each other smuggled .pdfs. They'll write their own fan fiction if they have to--but they <i>will </i>break out of the bonds imposed upon them by teeny tiny fragile minds.</p><p>Banning books is reprehensible. It's ignorant. It's a sign of a fascist government and a fascist population.</p><p>But nothing--and I mean <i style="font-weight: bold;">nothing--</i>will ensure the next generation will be more open minded, more liberal, more ready to change the world than telling teenagers what they <i style="font-weight: bold;">can </i><b>and </b><i style="font-weight: bold;">can not </i>learn. </p><p>A book--bad or good--is so much more powerful if it is scary enough to ban.</p><p>And the people banning them--"Oh help! I'm such a fragile white person I don't want my kid to read Michele Obama's biography because my kid might learn class and education and we want to stay proudly trashy, thank you!"-- will never, ever, ever understand. </p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-67949535435961670592022-01-18T00:10:00.000-08:002022-01-18T00:10:15.740-08:00There Will Always be Knitting<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixMEu1Bp87iaQPzdP7_ezDHY0mIUMFi2GXXTLRIINxIa2L5PRZn-Vadsvq8X4reExbeJJcsdDSuILl7tFOfhSQuFSYljZMlUoG6jHqBWgLVFw8c6oRjpmrUxmwWngWBIbDv5TJk-FGgDp6oO3gGUA2ySJJvfXO2tm6IQ6atAAhgRaczY0Uo_Xc0CBG=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixMEu1Bp87iaQPzdP7_ezDHY0mIUMFi2GXXTLRIINxIa2L5PRZn-Vadsvq8X4reExbeJJcsdDSuILl7tFOfhSQuFSYljZMlUoG6jHqBWgLVFw8c6oRjpmrUxmwWngWBIbDv5TJk-FGgDp6oO3gGUA2ySJJvfXO2tm6IQ6atAAhgRaczY0Uo_Xc0CBG=s320" width="240" /></a></div>A couple of months ago, I started to put it together. I mean, for a while, I was puzzled. "How did I hit my finger? Why is it stiff and bruised? Wait, that's gone, but now my thumb hurts. Well, shit. I mean, I can still knit and crochet, but opening jars is sort of a job for someone else now. And seriously. The Advil bottle? Oh cruel, cruel irony. Cruel, cruel fate." <p></p><p>Also, at night, when it's cold and damp, my fingers grow cold and stiff on the keyboard. Whatever digit or two that's feeling frisky that night complains loudly when used--and beating up my keyboard with passionate dialog isn't a good idea.</p><p>I started to worry. Oh Lord. My mother's family has suffered from arthritis terribly. My grandmother complained of it--not often, but we knew she was in pain. And about four years ago, I'd been diagnosed with it in my knees. My response had been to up my exercise regimen--and I stick to that--and to not take the gabapentin that was given to me in a giant bottle because the side effects were boggling. For the most part that worked, but something about this stiffness in my fingers was terrifying.</p><p>A friend of mine--also suffering from arthritis--offered me her yarn, and while I am usually the "YES SEND IT ALL TO ME AND I SHALL HOARD IT LIKE THE DRAGON I AM!" friend, this time I... I hesitated. My fingers hurt. My thumbs hurt. And I was a little scared. I told her about another friend who knitted and suggested that <i>she </i>get this unexpected bounty. (She did, and she was very happy about it!)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNrhwyeHM_kXKF8yOQCzYATk8G5cbc_S1BFoBRU7YdDmnTeNsxNC5gHFSs-OwrsYGUrMDjGzuGuilSUSxUXOPor96ChoPpx4K0C5CSUnL3sX6baJnZDz-xpfiS5sOO6Sdnl2Wyqc3xkSl6MGOsOUFr3L5nYUCAVwNPkeAFULWK3r0blgsCnSfDvq7x=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhNrhwyeHM_kXKF8yOQCzYATk8G5cbc_S1BFoBRU7YdDmnTeNsxNC5gHFSs-OwrsYGUrMDjGzuGuilSUSxUXOPor96ChoPpx4K0C5CSUnL3sX6baJnZDz-xpfiS5sOO6Sdnl2Wyqc3xkSl6MGOsOUFr3L5nYUCAVwNPkeAFULWK3r0blgsCnSfDvq7x=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>And the repercussions of the refusal built up an awful panic. What if I couldn't knit? What if I couldn't crochet? Oh my Goddess, WHAT IF I COULDN'T YARN?</p><p>And Christmas was coming up. </p><p>I mean, of course I could make stuff for Christmas, right?</p><p>So I made the gnomes. The silly, absurd, goofy little gnomes. And the baskets for fudge--and gnomes. </p><p>I made some hats. Some keyhole scarves. Some hand warmers. Started on a shawl that I really love but I don't know who will get it.</p><p>I mean, I kept busy. </p><p>There was stiffness in my hands--not going to lie. Bought some arthritis gloves--they help. Took some Advil. Also helped. Ergonomic crochet hooks--and sticking to crochet and small yarn--also helped. Kept crocheting and knitting and somewhere in that Christmas industry, I was reminded that <i>it </i>helped too. If I could get past the pain--and remember to stretch out--keeping my hands busy helped to keep my joints healthy.</p><p>Some of my panic receded.</p><p>I wasn't out of the game yet. I wasn't ready to start shipping all my yarn boxes to charity. I could still do this thing that has kept me sane since 1998.</p><p>Last night another friend messaged me. <i>She </i>had ordered some yarn that she really loved but she hated to work with. "Would you like this yarn?"</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoaNB8RdNQIQ144WX_yGeCXzW335cg-Vgqc_5CP3mXhd_2ltBLbBxEB0KLZPPOJ3Tierw7tj4TalVQGK9Cy7faZp47N3ENKZrsN9Ztls7kyHeyV_qufYEfHSbegcrrKupprE8D2M8mESZfVpbbTKbqwqUSRI8U9l9gmf-uDFuaeqbo479xxX9FEvRl=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoaNB8RdNQIQ144WX_yGeCXzW335cg-Vgqc_5CP3mXhd_2ltBLbBxEB0KLZPPOJ3Tierw7tj4TalVQGK9Cy7faZp47N3ENKZrsN9Ztls7kyHeyV_qufYEfHSbegcrrKupprE8D2M8mESZfVpbbTKbqwqUSRI8U9l9gmf-uDFuaeqbo479xxX9FEvRl=s320" width="180" /></a></div>I pulled out a shawl that I was half finished working, done in this exact yarn. I adored it. "Yes! Yes I would love this yarn!"<p></p><p>And a part of me gave a tremendous sigh of relief. I was still doing this. It was still part of my identity. I was still in the yarn chain of give and receive, and I was still making things for people that would surprise them.</p><p>At the moment, I just need my husband to open the spaghetti sauce jars, that's all.</p><p>Someday, it might be different. Someday, I might not be able to work past the pain. But for now, there is knitting (and crocheting! Mostly crocheting!) and I am grateful.</p><p>The reminder to be grateful for the time I have with the activities I love--and the people, and the fur-babies, and the music and television and movies and audiobooks--has not been in vain.</p><p>And when it's over, here's hoping I have wonderful friends to whom I can pass it on.</p><p>It would be wonderful if there could always be knitting.</p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-65652828076445723332022-01-11T00:51:00.000-08:002022-01-11T00:51:47.168-08:00Dear Uptight Woman...<p> Dear uptight white woman who yelled at me from her driveway today as I passed with my dogs--</p><p>I hesitate to use the term Karen because I know and love several WONDERFUL women named Karen, and to call you "a Karen" would be giving you too much affection. </p><p>But I think everybody gets the idea.</p><p>Anyway, I was carrying one of my dogs and keeping my other dogs off your lawn after you yelled at me from your driveway as I was passing by, and I didn't really assimilate what you were yelling at me about until after you huffed off.</p><p>So let me see if I can address your damage. </p><p>First of all, I'm sorry your dogs bark and wreck your home when my dogs walk the sidewalk in front of your house. My dogs frequently bark at people from the house--the UPS guy, the Amazon delivery guy, cats coming in from the backyard--I usually make the assumption that this behavior is either the dogs' fault for being idiot dogs or my fault for not training the idiot dog well enough. I do not--repeat <b>NOT--</b> blame the UPS or USPS or Amazon people, because they are just doing their jobs. Much like my dogs are just doing theirs when I walk them.</p><p>As a caveat here, I'd like to ask "You let them destroy the house?" I myself am not the most stringent of dog owners, but my dogs don't knock stuff over or tear apart the furniture when we get mail, so that really does sound more like a "you" problem than a "me" problem.</p><p>Second of all, no, I'm NOT CROSSING THE STREET when I come by your house. Sorry. Not gonna do it. I cross the street if there's somebody else with dogs coming near me, or a mother with a kid in a carriage because my dogs bark and that's more comfortable, but I'm not crossing the street because your dogs INSIDE YOUR HOUSE bark at them as we walk by. I bet you expect the rain to part for you as you walk under the clouds, too, don't you sunshine?</p><p>Third of all, after you huffed away, my daughter, who was a little ways ahead of me and heard the entire conversation, pointed out that the last time we passed your house was JANUARY 2ND, you cranky whore, so if you think my dogs have been making your dogs bark every day this week, you' re totally fucking wrong.</p><p>And last of all--and I hesitate to bring this up because this was my daughter talking and I think she might be the teeniest protective--I would like to add that I did talk to your husband that January 2nd walk. He was cleaning up Christmas lights, and he was totally pleasant. My daughter thinks you're feeling threatened by me, and while I'm very fat and sorta gray and not particularly fuckable, you may rest assured that I do have a man of my own and do not need yours. Although if you're as unpleasant to him as you were to me today, I can see your worry.</p><p>So, let me see if I can restate the salient parts here: </p><p>A. I'll deal with my dogs if you deal with yours.</p><p>B. I don't want to fuck your husband.</p><p>C. You were a total and absolute twat.</p><p>D. If you yell at me again my adult daughter may fuck you up--that's just a guess, but she was pretty pissed.</p><p>E. If you don't want your dogs to tear up your house, you should maybe tell them no. Hey--it worked for us--Ginger finally stopped trying to find the vagina in all our blankets and hasn't fucked a pillow to death for over two months now.</p><p>Thank you so much for your time-- </p><p>Sincerely,</p><p>The pissed off fat woman with all the fucking dogs</p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-77620284039173194202022-01-03T02:12:00.004-08:002022-01-03T02:12:58.146-08:00Dog Park<p> Happy New Year!</p><p><br /></p><p>Okay--so this blogging thing--still working on it a little. Trying to find a balance between "Blogging is draining my soul" and "What is this thing they call blogging?" (after fifteen years of blogging!) is maybe not as easy as it sounds.</p><p>But our Christmas was lovely--frenetic, but lovely. Our New Years was quiet--the kids got sparkling cider and that's really all they've wanted out of the deal.</p><p>ZoomBoy has started work at Raising Cane's chicken fingers, and now he's brought home a fever and a cold--although I know it's not Covid because he heard we brought home Volkswaffle and practically booty-bumped two people and a cat in the hallway getting out to get himself one. Given that it was the only time he moved all day, I felt sort of proud of that.</p><p>Squish enjoyed Christmas--and is on a new medication regimen that seems to be working. I'm much relieved.</p><p>Chicken is looking for a new job because she's unsure of her financial aid status right now, and Rubio's is draining her soul.</p><p>And Mate... well, he's sort of made me a basketball widow over the last two weeks. On the one hand, I can't blame him because the Kings are SO BAD this year, he's like, "It's a train wreck, but it's one I'm personally involved in and not only can I not look away, I want front row seats. I mean, I have to settle for what my season pass gives me, but still--if I've got the tickets I'm going to watch them self-destruct. It's intoxicating. Like heroin." I've got no words for that, really--but it does make my thing with yarn a lot easier to understand. I hope anyway. "It's wool, and I just want to touch it. It's intoxicating."</p><p>Right?</p><p>Anyway--to get to the title of the post, we took the dogs to the dog park today, the one where they get to run around and play chase and act like dogs.</p><p>I was quite surprised, really. </p><p>I'm pleased to announce that after a couple of those weird alien stretches Ginger does--and one time of peeing and showing the world she was not assembled correctly and has some odd skeletal glitches--she ran around and barked and chased other dogs.</p><p>As Chicken told me, "You can do this when your feet or knees hurt and you can't walk the dogs at the park."</p><p>It was a nice thought--and I'll keep it in mind. But remember Christmas? One of my gifts to myself was a pair of crocs. After giving myself fasciitis twice--once after Thanksgiving and once after Christmas Eve-I decided that I needed something on my feet if I was to spend the entire day cooking.</p><p>The Crocs arrived December 27th, and they may not change my life--but I'm impressed so far. </p><p>But if they don't completely stave off the fasciitis flare ups, I've got to say it-- Crocs. Who knew.</p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-53594537248914762642021-12-10T15:25:00.003-08:002021-12-10T15:28:08.016-08:00Venom and the Knitter<p> So, <i>Venom (1 and 2) </i>is one of my favorite parts of the Marvel franchise. It deals with a lesser known character, the cast is small but stellar, the budget is limited so the action sequences are short but meaningful, and there is something about the dialog between Venom, the ultimate id, and his fragile superego, Eddie, that gets to me. Like really resonates. Like... like....like I've really been there or something. Like maybe Eddie and me have something in common.</p><p><br /></p><p>Amy: *tremulously* Hello. Uhm, I'm Amy. And I have too much yarn.</p><p>MERINO (a giant monster made of expanding and contracting all wool fiber filaments that have merged with Amy's nerve endings and conscious thought): AND IF YOU TRY TO TAKE IT FROM ME I'LL CUT A BITCH.</p><p>Amy: No, Merino-- that's not true! The yarn problem here it's overwhelming-- people need a place to sit--</p><p>MERINO: THEY CAN KNIT THEIR OWN SEAT CUSHIONS IN HELL!</p><p>Amy: No! No! We have to clear a spot here--we need room for a Christmas tree!</p><p>MERINO: WILL PEOPLE BUY YARN FOR ME???????</p><p>Amy: <i>We don't need anymore yarn!</i></p><p>MERINO: ALWAYS NEED MORE YARN!</p><p>Amy: We have other interests--books--</p><p>MERINO: AUDIOBOOKS ON YOUR PHONE SO YOU CAN KNIT WHILE LISTENING!!! YES! </p><p>Amy: Family--</p><p>MERINO: FAMILY TO KNIT FOR!</p><p>Amy: They can't live on yarn alone--</p><p>MERINO: PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY AND YARN!</p><p>Amy: And we like the dogs--</p><p>MERINO: WE HATE THE DOGS! THEY WON'T LET US KNIT!</p><p>Amy: We knit around the dogs--</p><p>MERINO: WE WILL EAT THE DOGS! EAT THE DOGS, BUY THE YARN! EVERYBODY'S HAPPY!</p><p>Amy: <i>Except the dogs, you psychopath!</i></p><p>MERINO: YOU CAN'T KNIT WHILE WALKING THE DOGS!!!</p><p>Amy: Well, some people knit socks while walking--</p><p>MERINO: KNIT A SACK TO CARRY THE DOGS IN!</p><p>Amy: Tempting, but no</p><p>MERINO: TIME TO KNIT!</p><p>Amy: We were going to take a nap--</p><p>MERINO: KNIT OR WE EAT THE DOGS.</p><p>Amy: Remember life before you were a part of me?</p><p>MERINO: NO. IT HAD NO MEANING. NOW KNIT!</p><p>Amy: Uhm, my name is Amy and... uhm... I have a yarn--uhm, passion. Not problem. Passion. It's all good. Just, uhm, move the yarn bags to sit. Uhm... Christmas is canceled this year. EVERYBODY OUT OF THE FRONT ROOM SO I CAN WATCH NCIS AND KNIT A SWEATER FOR THE HOUSE!</p><p>MERINO: DAMN. THAT BITCH IS HARDCORE. </p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7038815217243908035.post-63658064420364948922021-11-28T23:43:00.003-08:002021-11-28T23:43:36.797-08:00Thankful<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUQQfuj2rT28pd8pOkiSPq-ehpDOqLlK74inx13O-g_ZZ-oesqnkJPGVkHAUy0XIO6ejPAZ95aMd6MefzfwH2GaGIha4TrGgY6p1UoQHEcyuwLqan7cfg1Cryn2so9FN62HKTLOcvergmK3ZpEkgnp5TjyLs_m0wHOPFRxLmnlCtthGu9wUj4NALfF=s333" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUQQfuj2rT28pd8pOkiSPq-ehpDOqLlK74inx13O-g_ZZ-oesqnkJPGVkHAUy0XIO6ejPAZ95aMd6MefzfwH2GaGIha4TrGgY6p1UoQHEcyuwLqan7cfg1Cryn2so9FN62HKTLOcvergmK3ZpEkgnp5TjyLs_m0wHOPFRxLmnlCtthGu9wUj4NALfF=s320" width="240" /></a></div> So I had a massive fasciitis flare up yesterday and I've spent pretty much all day stoned on Flexeril and Ibuprofen so let's see how coherent I am.<p></p><p>... probably not very.</p><p>See, I know I promised to blog more, but I've discovered that when things get super intense, I get super quiet inside. It's like I can only deal with a little bit of something at a time, so I smile, get through the social sitch and then process everything later. </p><p>Unless shit is really bad, in which case I run for my room to cry, but that's something I try not to do a lot.</p><p>Anyway--so remember when it rained super much a lot? We were all pretty stoked that it happened, and still are--although we need it to do that about three more times, plus snowing in the Sierras for me to be comfortable showering every day. But when that happened, Chicken's apartment got flooded, and when the landlords came to assess the damage they found mold--that they sort of refused to remove or pay for. So Chicken's roommates decided to move--who can blame them?-- but they wanted to move out into their own apartment because they're a couple. Chicken can't afford her own apartment because fucking California rent, and as a result, asked to come home.</p><p>Her old room had been remodeled for Squish, so we said, "Sure--you don't have to pay us rent, but you have to do most of the remodel on what is now the storage room." She's in the middle of student teaching right now, but, well, Mate and I are in the middle of our own jobs which pay the mortgage on this crumbling piece of crap, so we knew it was going to be stressful but that was what we could manage.</p><p>The last two weeks have been her mad scramble to order her siblings around to clear out the room. She was super stressed thinking it wouldn't be done, and ignoring the fact that her father went in to work on it during the downtimes. Super small house, not a huge room--two people, maximum, can really get a handle on the work there. So she would get here and go, "OH!" And then stress out again because she had to be moved in by today.</p><p>She <i>is </i>moved in by today--thanks to a fairly herculean effort by almost everybody but me, because I mostly get in the way with jobs like that. My job was a little smaller--I had to get ready for Thanksgiving and then cook. We were having Chicken's roommates over, and my own dog walking buddies, and it was a large gathering for our mall, crowded house. I got it done--and even got some of the leftovers taken to my bio-mom the day afterward--but yesterday, my foot started cramping up. Being on my feet for three days, apparently, followed by a long stint of driving with not enough walkies. By last night, getting to the bathroom was super painful. Today, like I said, I spent the entire day stoned on Flexeril and Ibuprofen while my family and household changed shape around me, and my oldest, Big T, asked me why our family was like this?</p><p>I ran out of patient answers. I don't know why we're like this--why are our bathrooms falling apart, Big T? Your father was going to use his sabbatical to fix one of them, but he spent the whole time teaching you to drive. Why are our couches falling apart like they are? Well, you and your brother have been flopping your asses on them like trampolines for going on ten year now! Why do we have so much yarn? Because buying the yarn keeps me from losing my shit about the house--yes, I'm aware it's a self defeating cycle, but when was the last time anybody offered to help dad with a house chore unless it benefitted you personally? And I realize this isn't entirely fair--mine and Mate's choices are our own, but Squish has friends with much nicer houses too which I've heard about all week, and generally having your kids call you white trash is rough on the old self esteem.</p><p>I don't know what to tell them--or rather, I do, but what I want to say isn't polite. It's probably being in pain--and being on painkillers--because I can usually handle their criticism better than this. It might also be the worry that having one more person living here is going to change our dynamic for the worse. Or that our living room is so full of crap we can't fit a Christmas tree. I don't know--whatever it was, I know I didn't have a handle on my emotions or my ability to rein them in today.</p><p>Which is too bad.</p><p>Because I had a really nice Thanksgiving. All of that cooking was appreciated, both by Chicken's roommates, my family, and Bob and Sue. Bob is my dog walking buddy and Sue is his charming wife, and I have to tell you that when I talk about a full house, we had a six-Chihuahua Thanksgiving. Chicken brought Carl, her roommate brought Guest-dog Gibbs, Bob brought Dude, and I had my own three to add to the mix and Thursday was raucous and delicious and fun. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzw3hNUKFCfq5hUc_3lQXgQX6XTIVIK6De4WbmEooHatkSXYmA9ygLOsVYUUwfgh3pXBOSP3naC_ycGMMyNSKNWFvv6DoGeGm_w8iMQsccP9S_alRsRHON1l1Z9hSp2NkHjcOUB41ZEImj6H4NXsL_UuADL7X9pwk2jnKRG5CUCdnbiFf4jSNVdDC0=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzw3hNUKFCfq5hUc_3lQXgQX6XTIVIK6De4WbmEooHatkSXYmA9ygLOsVYUUwfgh3pXBOSP3naC_ycGMMyNSKNWFvv6DoGeGm_w8iMQsccP9S_alRsRHON1l1Z9hSp2NkHjcOUB41ZEImj6H4NXsL_UuADL7X9pwk2jnKRG5CUCdnbiFf4jSNVdDC0=s320" width="320" /></a></div>That wasn't the only part of the day that was great, either. At noon, we popped the turkey into the oven and then Mate, Zoomboy and I went up to my dad and stepmom's to visit with my stepbrother and stepsister, and while I see Casey a couple times a year, I do NOT see Todd--and it was really good to be in the same place with them on a holiday. I was so happy to get a chance to see them--and we got back to our house before the turkey was done, so I felt like a fantastic meal planner right there.<p></p><p>Friday, I took some leftovers--and a Chihuahua--to go see my bio-mom. Now, some of you are thinking, "Why not Geoffie?" which is fair, because she's the cutest and the best behaved. But Ginger will bark at strangers--but not at friends. Geoffie will bark at friends because she sees the bork as sort of a "Hey, how are you? Yeah? How's that going?" and she will bork at people as they are scratching her behind the ears because it's only polite to keep the conversation up. But Ginger, once you pick her up, as long as there's no other borking, will simply curl up in your lap and cuddle. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQ7pqhZWmj05dj1V1BlmiJ1nwu3ca4_MFBntuGdG2UQ736-vGHV_ULt7tDbFy5PdoOTzlIo_RlwhWl1rOjwYGAjpDG7KC0a1Dg4bg69-D40uJkiXXCD-S0qmTZu5KzHH8jq40tChLbr-c2yOX9EffY3WLdtKpZ91qX3Tvqvac22T9nBLwI0f3sYXMN=s640" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQ7pqhZWmj05dj1V1BlmiJ1nwu3ca4_MFBntuGdG2UQ736-vGHV_ULt7tDbFy5PdoOTzlIo_RlwhWl1rOjwYGAjpDG7KC0a1Dg4bg69-D40uJkiXXCD-S0qmTZu5KzHH8jq40tChLbr-c2yOX9EffY3WLdtKpZ91qX3Tvqvac22T9nBLwI0f3sYXMN=s320" width="320" /></a></div>So that's all she had to do while I spoke to my biomom. And there I was, holding this neurotic dog who was looking around the picnic area skeptically when Ginger spotted her mortal enemy: a chicken. This dog--who is not too graceful anyway, because her legs are like way longer than her body did this tremendous SPLANG off the picnic table to get that damned chicken. She didn't, of course--I had her leash looped around my wrist because I try not to be stupid. Anyway--the moment was hilarious and I think Alexa enjoyed her pie, and, well, it was another good day. We will not mention the moment when I got home and discovered that the room--which had been repainted this glorious "hushed rose" color that I adored had been "splattered" Jackson Pollack style with red in an attempt to be "ironic". I'll be honest--I cried. Foot was starting to hurt, I was tired and emotionally drained, and I hadn't expected the pretty room to be transformed into a murder room while I was gone. It through me. As an apology Chicken went and got some purple and some white and used that to splatter the room, and the effect was actually much better.<p></p><p> Also good was that yesterday we were able to tell Chicken to stay home and do homework while her father finished the floor in the room--and he did. It took him forever, but he had ZoomBoy to help and he should be proud of the results.</p><p>So, yes--we're thankful. But there was also a lot going on there. I mean, a six-Chihuahua Thanksgiving and a murder room nervous breakdown would normally be their own headlines, right?</p><p>But with any luck--and a lot of ibuprofen--I should be able to walk by Tuesday and perhaps the world won't feel quite so out of control. And while I was laid up today, I managed to finish the last of three projects that I needed to photograph tomorrow so I can have a layout in the Sierra College Community Outreach education website--and I might also get to teach knitting and crochet and not just writing through them, so that's fun too!</p><p>And that also would have gotten its own headline. </p><p>See? This has been some week.</p><p>And I am still thankful. Taking deep breaths and counting to ten, but thankful. Remembering that it's every child's job to think their parents are idiots at least once in their lives, so still thankful. And grateful for heavy duty medication so I might be able to walk by Tuesday and, yes, still thankful.</p><p>Also, I'm probably ready for bed. Don't do drugs, kids. For fuckin' real.<br /><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08205741563104385654noreply@blogger.com0