Oops...

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

But yeah. The cream helped.

Until today, when I learned a valuable esson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Girl Scout Cookies

 

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

I remember reading an essay of the Yarn Harlot's once--something had happened in her family that she didn't want to share--but she wanted to share the after-effect, which was simply, that for about two weeks, she was so heartbroken she couldn't even knit. There had been no death in the family, which she would have felt able to talk about, but that didn't mean there had been no grief. The essay detailed her and her husband going to the grocery store together because neither of them could think clearly enough for only one of them to go. "Our hearts were broken, that is all you need to know."

I'm going
with that approach.  Start with last Tuesday, the 10th, and our hearts were broken--and go from there. In the last two weeks there have been trips and visits and meetings to deal with what happened that day. There has been an attempt to fix the breaking, to achieve equilibrium, to ensure against further breakage. There has been suppressed anger (we're white people who eat our feelings--no cookie is safe)  and suppressed grief and mental and emotional exhaustion.

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

Ou.

Ch.

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings me to today.

Two packages arrived today. 

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

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

Mate didn't even bat an eyelash. 

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

"Nope." 

And then we both went back to trying to work. After he demolished a package of Samoas.

And for a moment, we're okay--the only cookies at risk have arrived by post, and really, they weren't long for this world anyway.

Banning Books

Ugh! Where to start, where to start, where to start...

It feels like all of my anecdotes have been told until they're ready to shrivel up and float away.  I'm going to start with one that happened when I was in about eight grade.

My dad worked nights, and there was sort of a revolving paperback library where he worked, and sometimes he'd bring the books home. He brought one home and put it on top of the refrigerator. I was five-foot-six at the time--not my actual adult height, but definitely big enough to figure out the top of the refrigerator--and I pulled it down because, hey! Book! Right?

Oh no... you mustn't read that book. That book was a mistake. Dad shouldn't have brought that home.

Oh. Okay. I had some Tolkien, some Piers Anthony, some Lloyd Alexander--who needed whatever the hell that was, right?

Until my stepmom told me to burn it. 

I was appalled, but she was like, "It's a super shitty book--and we don't need it floating around the house and the library won't take it. Just burn it with the rest of the burn barrel.

I was a good kid--I mean I tried to be a good kid. So I took it out to the burn barrel and threw the other stuff in and, well, sort of flipped through the book while I was burning everything else.

As an adult who writes adult books with sex in them, I will tell you right now that this one was the grossest sort of trash. I've read porn that left me a lot hotter and not nearly as soiled as this book. Racist, grossly pornographic, four-big-black-guys-in-an-anal-gangbang-without-lube sort of trash. 

Yes, I remember the scene almost verbatim. 

I, uhm, hadn't known a penis could go there until that very moment. 

I threw the book into the fire, feeling a little nauseous, and watched it burn, the edges turning black and curling, the center turning to a glowing furnace of pulp wood and glue.

It was the first time I got why people might want to burn books. I couldn't seem to shake those words. They'd burned themselves into my brain.

They followed me. Every sex scene I read as a young adult was compared to that one. Every time two people kissed or had a breakup scene or someone did something "beyond the pale" in a book I read, I'd remember that scene.

When I wrote books and love scenes, I endeavored with all my soul to not make a scene that would leave people feeling the way that shitty book left me feeling.

And here's the thing. All of that could have been avoided if my stepmom, whom I trusted, had merely said, "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." 

But no--I burned it. And in spite of seriously how bad the book was now I'm stuck with it burned in my mind.

So.

My feelings on the big book banning thing that's sweeping the South.

First of all, to the hysterical and ignorant parents driving this because you're afraid your precious straight white child is going to learn something you know nothing about: you filthy cowards. These aren't books that are trying to demean people, or trying to titillate them--they're trying to inform people on the diversity of American experience. Does this book make you feel bad as a white person? Well maybe try not to be such a shitty white person. Do LGBTQ folk scare you? Well maybe inform yourself about them by reading some of their voices and see that they are just people like you. Well, maybe not "you" as in the ignorant filthy racist extremists who think burning ALL THE BOOKS is a good idea. But they are people with compassion and fear and empathy, so they are people BETTER than "you" and I bet that's super scary too, right?

Read a book and get over it.

And second of all, you children aren't going to not read these books.

I guarantee your children will read these books. I read a tweet that said, "In sixth grade there was one copy of Forever that got passed around to every kid in the class." Yes. That. There was one copy of Forever, and one of Deenie, and if your parents bought you science fiction, you'd get to read Anne McCaffrey with gay couples and pregnancy surrogacy and "proddy green dragons" and there are a thousand authors out there that will write book your children will get their greedy little hands on and they will learn, and they will learn things that scare you and you will disagree with, and there's not a thing you can do to stop it from happening. 

So there.

Just remember, people like you are the ones who took your children to see ParaNorman because it was an "animated children's film" and after watching 95% of a film dedicated to showing people why witch-hunts were bad got all bent out of shape when the hunky male teenager told Norman's sister that she'd like his boyfriend and they should all totally hang out. I'll never forget those ragey letters to the editor btw. "I just wanted to watch a wholesome movie about how we're all different and there were GAY characters in it! How DARE they?"

They dared because film and literature are always trying to break the barriers that keep humans trapped in their own hearts. That's what film and literature do. And it's scary.

It must be scary, or you idiots wouldn't be trying to ban that from happening--but just because it scares you doesn't mean its wrong.

Now let's go back to that book I burned. The one I remember. The one that, as an adult, I can't believe was actually published and distributed. I was fired for giving a student a book, and nothing in my book was anywhere as gross as this book, that any kid could get in a library.

But frankly, most kids wouldn't.

Most kids would be reading Forever or Go Ask Alice or What About the Haynes Girl? or any of the books that covered real life problems and resonated with teenagers and expanded their world.

Kids don't like reading trash--and they know the difference. They know what engages their hearts. They know what expands their world. They know what literature is. 

And I'll tell you something--if the grossest sort of trash had such a profound effect (even if it was by negative example) on my psyche because my mother made me burn it, imagine--simply imagine--what effect Maus or any of the other banned books that idiots are freaking out about--will do when kids get their hands on them. And they will get their hands on them.  They'll have Banned Book Clubs. They'll send each other smuggled .pdfs. They'll write their own fan fiction if they have to--but they will break out of the bonds imposed upon them by teeny tiny fragile minds.

Banning books is reprehensible. It's ignorant. It's a sign of a fascist government and a fascist population.

But nothing--and I mean nothing--will ensure the next generation will be more open minded, more liberal, more ready to change the world than telling teenagers what they can and can not learn. 

A book--bad or good--is so much more powerful if it is scary enough to ban.

And the people banning them--"Oh help! I'm such a fragile white person I don't want my kid to read 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. 

There Will Always be Knitting

 

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." 

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.

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.

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 she get this unexpected bounty. (She did, and she was very happy about it!)

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?

And Christmas was coming up. 

I mean, of course I could make stuff for Christmas, right?

So I made the gnomes. The silly, absurd, goofy little gnomes. And the baskets for fudge--and gnomes. 

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.

I mean, I kept busy. 

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 it helped too. If I could get past the pain--and remember to stretch out--keeping my hands busy helped to keep my joints healthy.

Some of my panic receded.

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.

Last night another friend messaged me. She had ordered some yarn that she really loved but she hated to work with. "Would you like this yarn?"

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!"

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.

At the moment, I just need my husband to open the spaghetti sauce jars, that's all.

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.

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.

And when it's over, here's hoping I have wonderful friends to whom I can pass it on.

It would be wonderful if there could always be knitting.

Dear Uptight Woman...

 Dear uptight white woman who yelled at me from her driveway today as I passed with my dogs--

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. 

But I think everybody gets the idea.

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.

So let me see if I can address your damage. 

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 NOT-- 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

So, let me see if I can restate the salient parts here: 

A. I'll deal with my dogs if you deal with yours.

B. I don't want to fuck your husband.

C. You were a total and absolute twat.

D. If you yell at me again my adult daughter may fuck you up--that's just a guess, but she was pretty pissed.

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.

Thank you so much for your time-- 

Sincerely,

The pissed off fat woman with all the fucking dogs

Dog Park

 Happy New Year!

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.

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.

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.

Squish enjoyed Christmas--and is on a new medication regimen that seems to be working. I'm much relieved.

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.

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."

Right?

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.

I was quite surprised, really. 

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.

As Chicken told me, "You can do this when your feet or knees hurt and you can't walk the dogs at the park."

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.

The Crocs arrived December 27th, and they may not change my life--but I'm impressed so far. 

But if they don't completely stave off the fasciitis flare ups, I've got to say it--Crocs. Who knew.

Venom and the Knitter

 So, Venom (1 and 2) 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.

Amy: *tremulously* Hello. Uhm, I'm Amy. And I have too much yarn.

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.

Amy: No, Merino-- that's not true! The yarn problem here it's overwhelming-- people need a place to sit--

MERINO: THEY CAN KNIT THEIR OWN SEAT CUSHIONS IN HELL!

Amy: No! No! We have to clear a spot here--we need room for a Christmas tree!

MERINO: WILL PEOPLE BUY YARN FOR ME???????

Amy: We don't need anymore yarn!

MERINO: ALWAYS NEED MORE YARN!

Amy: We have other interests--books--

MERINO: AUDIOBOOKS ON YOUR PHONE SO YOU CAN KNIT WHILE LISTENING!!! YES! 

Amy: Family--

MERINO: FAMILY TO KNIT FOR!

Amy: They can't live on yarn alone--

MERINO: PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY AND YARN!

Amy:   And we like the dogs--

MERINO: WE HATE THE DOGS! THEY WON'T LET US KNIT!

Amy: We knit around the dogs--

MERINO: WE WILL EAT THE DOGS! EAT THE DOGS, BUY THE YARN! EVERYBODY'S HAPPY!

Amy: Except the dogs, you psychopath!

MERINO: YOU CAN'T KNIT WHILE WALKING THE DOGS!!!

Amy: Well, some people knit socks while walking--

MERINO: KNIT A SACK TO CARRY THE DOGS IN!

Amy: Tempting, but no

MERINO: TIME TO KNIT!

Amy: We were going to take a nap--

MERINO: KNIT OR WE EAT THE DOGS.

Amy: Remember life before you were a part of me?

MERINO: NO. IT HAD NO MEANING. NOW KNIT!

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!

MERINO: DAMN. THAT BITCH IS HARDCORE. 

Thankful

 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.

... probably not very.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

She is 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?

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.

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.

Which is too bad.

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

 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.

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?

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!

And that also would have gotten its own headline. 

See? This has been some week.

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.

Also, I'm probably ready for bed. Don't do drugs, kids. For fuckin' real.

18--but still my ZoomBoy

 I mentioned this on FB but ZoomBoy has new goings on in his life! For one thing, he's got a job--it starts on December 2nd, and it's in fast food (Raising Cane's Chicken Fingers, which is new for our area) and he's so excited! He's currently volunteering to help his dance teacher, and while she says he has to learn to be more engaged before she pays him, that's exciting too.

He's also planning to get his drivers permit. Woot!

And he was freaking out a little. "I'm going to be a grown up! It's so scary!"

And I shit you not, the day after he had this freak out, he was about to leave the house in his black dance pants. 

"Zoomboy? Are those on inside out?"

"Yes?"

"Don't worry about growing up too fast!"

I mean, obviously not.

Anyway--he turned 18 today and when we asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday, his answer was very... him.

For years when he was little, we'd tried to do the big birthday parties. Grandparents. Zoos. Skating parties. Whatever. Every damned time he picked one or two kids and said, "I just want to do something with them."

"Something like what?"

"Fun. We could play Legos."

"O... kay..."

And then, that's what he'd do. Have the kids over to play Legos. And eat cake. That was it. Nothing big. Friends to play with. Whee! I remember one birthday party when he ended up under the kitchen table with one kid playing with his new toys. All the other kids were outside with a piñata, but ZB had his bestie, and they were happy.

We stopped with the big parties after that btw. 

Anyway, this party--this most prestigious of ages--was no different. 

"What do you want?"

"I dunno."

"Dinner out with Grandma and Grandpa? A trip to the movies with friends? Pizza at our house with friends--"

"That."

"That's all?"

"Yeah. Pizza and ice cream cake."

"You don't like ice cream."

"No, I don't eat it because it's bad for my digestion and I want you all to live, but once a year is fine."

"Okay. What ki--"

"Cookies and cream ice cream cake."

"Done! Pizza! Your D and D buddies--what are you going to do in our crappy house, pray tell?"

"Play PS4. Watch Arcane. It'll be fine."

And it was. 

Of course, in the kitchen, I got to hear the story of how Big T and his fiancé got engaged--and here I'm at a conundrum. They sent me pictures right after he asked, and she's sporting the ring--which is a sunburst of opals--and it's adorable. It's a selfie and it's all the things  a mother wants for her child during a milestone like this. They are so happy--makes me tear up.

But it's not my picture to share. It's theirs. And while they probably wouldn't mind, it just wouldn't feel right. But I'm so happy and proud for them both. I could have listened to their engagement story all night.

Or I could have watched ZoomBoy and his friends talk in teenager nerd, perfectly happy in each other's company, perfectly relaxed as long as none of the rest of us were in the room.

Or watch ZoomBoy, Squish, and Chicken decorate the kitchen with a streamer featuring flags and realize that ZoomBoy has a secret fetish for flags and can name most of the ones on the international waters banner that I got for a con event.

Or hug my husband and go, "Hey, we managed another milestone, and they seem to be okay. For the moment, they're all okay."

I could do all of that forever. I mean, T is going to be 29 in December, so that's nearly 29 years of crossing my finger at every heartbeat check and thanking the powers that be that all hearts are accounted for. 

What's another eternity and counting?

Where It All Comes From

 Over twenty years ago, when I was writing Vulnerable, I was writing the part where Cory was swimming in Lake Folsom. Now, I had grown up swimming in Folsom, and I loved it--but I wasn't so fond of the long weeds growing up from the bottom that would wrap their vines around my ankles. Freaked me out. I thought they were eels, although eels were probably not a thing in the lake. (FTR, this is something that has probably not been a thing over the last seven droughty years--the water has to be still and clear-ish for the weeds to grow up so long from the bottom, and there just hasn't been enough of it.)

Anyway--so I was writing that scene and I thought, "Hey, I should have a vampire grab her ankle! That would be freaky! It would freak me out, that's for sure!"  And I did! (It took me two more books to justify just what in the fuck that vampire would have been doing, lurking and rotting in the bottom of the lake to grab her, but by God, I did it!) Anyway, you'd think doing that would work out a few demons, right? I'd be able to swim across the lake just fine? 

Not so much.

Swimming in a lake has become a supreme act of bravery. I mean, I'm a good swimmer--when I was at my height of water aerobics, I could tread water for twenty minutes with my hands above my head on an off day. But those long fronds, wrapping around my ankle, dragging me down to the trash and the dead fish and the gravel below... Yeah. Couldn't do it. Last time I was in the lake I was swimming out to the buoys when suddenly I had a full-body wriggle, an absolute freak out. I had to float on my back for five minutes just to keep swimming. Dude. Scary.

So suffice it to say, "working your problems out in fiction" is not as straightforward as people might think it is.

But on the other hand...

Ten years ago, I'd finally been called in to be deposed by the super pricey lawyer Natomas School District had hired to fire me. (The hypocrisy of that--gah! Still burns!)  Anyway, after an exhausting day of having my blogs read back to me, I asked my lawyer rather pissily (I was beyond tears by this point--it had been over a year) exactly what the fucking school district wanted from me.

"Well," he said, slowly, "I think they wanted your students to have never heard of Amy Lane, or know that you wrote for profit, or were successful at all."

"But I'm an English teacher--shouldn't they want to know that it can be done? That writing is important? That fiction means something?"

"Well, not this administration."

"But that would be like cutting myself in half and getting rid of the best parts."

... And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where Chase in Shadow came from.

Now, I didn't know that's where he was coming from at the time. I had no idea. I just knew he bloomed inside of me full grown and pretty much sprang from my head, like Zeus. I knew this kid. My situation was very different--and not NEARLY as painful or as dire as Chase's, let me be clear--but I had a small inkling of what it was to be expected to hold the best of yourself back because the world was too ignorant to know better.

That core of Chase--that was me--and that despair he felt... well, that was a lot of other things that have been worked out in a lot of other books.

But I didn't realize that until later. 

It was like the Locker Room was, in essence, my goodbye to teaching. Or Solid Core of Alpha was what it was like to make the choice to write. Or Bitter Moon was my hope for a better world for my children. Or Immortal was me, making the choice to write slower, interact with my family more, be present in my children's lives, and allow the art to come.

I didn't know that's what those books were as I was writing them. I just wrote. And then they were done, and a year later, somebody said, "Where did that book come from? Where did Beneath the Stain come from?"

"Well, I grew up in a small town, back then, it had less than 3,000 people in it, and we marched the band through main street on homecoming..."

But like I said, you don't realize it until later.

I've been getting a lot of feedback (GOOD!) about the Hedge Witches Lonely Hearts Club books--and I'm so tickled. I didn't expect them to do particularly well--and they did. Something about them... something... well, it hit people right where they needed to be hit.

Maybe it was the isolation, and how everything in the neighborhood that they used to understand had gone to hell. 

Maybe it was that they'd suppressed their deepest desires until magic ripped them from their mouths, because they couldn't hold them back anymore--and it all ended up okay.

Maybe it was how they were locked into a situation with people they loved, but it was still hard to hold on to what was true.

Maybe it was one character's quest for passion, or another character's inability to see past the labels he'd worn since childhood when he was doing his best to fix things, or the two characters locked in the same house or--

OH. Oh. Okay. 

I didn't know it at the time--and I swore I'd never write one. 

I would absolutely never, ever write a book about the pandemic, about lockdown, about the careful living we had to do in our own souls and how hard it was to let our real wants escape when there was nothing we could do about them. About how our real emotions were frightening and how we could end up locked in the same house with someone we loved without being able to speak to them, and how the world as we knew it was suddenly a place fraught with hidden dangers.

I'd never write a book about the pandemic--but it seems I've written three of them (the first one was written in 2019) and I set them in a safe place, of magic and wonder, where we know it's all going to be okay in the end.

And that's really what people want to see. The part where it's all going to be okay in the end.

And it's been a minute since I finished that last book, and I'm still boggling. I hadn't realized that's what I'd set these books up to be until today, when someone wrote to tell me they loved the books--and I thought, "I wonder what was in them that touched so many people."

And I almost didn't want to write this blog, because I didn't want to spoil that odd and wild magic that had made these books take one of the scariest things in our lives and make it fun and goofy and harmless. But I thought maybe I should write this blog, because people should see that it can be done. That sometimes writing, disappearing into your own head, is the only way to take the scary thing and make it doable. And sometimes, whether it's pandemic crafting (*raises hand guiltily*) or shotgunning stupid sitcoms (*hand still up*) or shotgunning audiobooks while walking around the neighborhood (*arm getting tired*) the things we do to the the scary thing and make it doable are MAGIC. And its Hedge Witch magic--the comforting kind we all possess. 

It's a dark and stormy night as I type this, and here's hoping the power stays on, and here's hoping the roof doesn't leak and here's hoping I can walk the dogs tomorrow before they remember there are other places to poop. 

And in the meantime I'll go write about Jackson and Ellery, winning impossible victories for the side of good, defeating evil with strength and determination, and I'll remember this is magic, and I'll perform it some more.