This post is nothing more than a tribute to one of the best friends I have ever been lucky enough to find.
Message: Sin, Although this may not be true for us, having never slept together and all, I wanted to be the first one to send you this card. Am I the first one or what? And if I’m not… awkward! -jj-
…And to Iowa! Man oh man, one by one, someday, the choice will be all of ours. Thank you, you curvy, sexy, unanimously, intelligently, thoughtful, beautiful, state.
Sing it Dar!
This is what it looks like to take a random day off in the week on one of those rare seattle spring days when it isn’t raining, snowing, windy or totally freezing:
Remember when I said this blog would not turn into post after post of the Seal? I’m trying folks… I am.
For the last month or so the Seal has been coming to work with me a few days a week. My desk is set up in a way where the right half works just like a little dog house cave – and the Seal loves it. The office is a nice big open studio for her to wander around and visit other folks. She spends the bulk of her time just sitting there staring at me from under the desk, waiting for me to do something. If I go to pick up a fax, the Seal comes with me. If I go to get water the Seal goes to get water. If I am in a meeting the Seal is under the table of the meeting, awkwardly sniffing the crotches of, or licking the shoes of other folks in the meeting.
For the most part this is all working out fine and dandy and I love having her with me. She has also given me good reason to get out of the office frequently for little walks, which I don’t offer myself enough of on my own. The only tricky part thus far has been the bus.
The bus is oh so very crowded on either side of the commute. And other folks commuting to and from work are not on guard to be looking out for a slightly shorter than usual black lab and her constantly swooshing tail on the bus. (And yes, it is doubly awkward when she licks the shoes of or sniffs the crotches of bus strangers but what are you going to do?)
She does pretty well, I must say. She is calm and patient and more than not, receives plenty of compliments for both.
I took the Seal to work today and all went fine – until the ride home- when…
She was just tired, I could tell and we didn’t have a proper walk at lunch time because I was just too busy. So, on the bus she was fidgety and uncomfortable.
The first ‘uh oh’ moment came when the heater kicked on, which scared the Seal and caused her to pee a little bit. The bus floors are grooved and her pee took up three different tracks so that with each stop the pee kept crawling forward a bit. By the time we got off the bus the pee had almost made it to the driver.
A little dog pee racing down the bus isle isn’t great but it isn’t that terrible nor is it disruptive. The moment of “oh-shit-I mean-at-least-I-can-blame-the-dog-but-oh-shit-none-the-less” was when she looked up at me with the sweetest little puppy dog eyes – which led one bus rider to comment on how pretty she was – followed by the most unwarranted, foul smelling dog fart that all of sudden began to take over every little bit of air there was to breathe. It was a misty bomb of ’someone obviously ate poison earlier today and now needs to poop!’ smell that, one by one, like the wave at a football game, had calm and resting end of the day faces turn to panicked scowls of “I can’t breathe! I really, really can’t breathe!”
I was mortified. And the Seal – oh, she knew! She looked at me with that, “Oops. Damn. My bad, huh!?!” look as she lowered her head. And we were guilty. Both of us. Clearly.
So, for the sake of the riders and selfishly wanting air that didn’t smell like decomposing dead squirrel marinated in ammonia with a hint of onion we got off the bus three stops early. The walk of shame, down an isle trickled in a small stream of urine, was long and full of some suffocating, judgmental looks.
But, the Seal is not one to dwell and I love her spirit of ‘what’s done is done – movin’ on now’ so, I followed her lead. We got off the bus, walked a few extra blocks, chased each other around in the park, went home, both gave Violet a big kiss and got on with our evening.
What’s done is done, we say, and we’re both sticking to it. And yes, we’ll both be on the bus come Monday.
I just realized I made my debut in the blog world a year ago today. Sinclair posted my response to the Angry Anonymous Girl on Sugarbutch. It got some attention, as does anything on that site, and folks were incredibly kind in their responses. After that post, Sinclair finally talked me into starting a blogomyown. And here I am.
Funny how things go.
For over a week now I haven’t been able to find that little cord that connects my ipod to the computer. I have some new music that I am really excited about and a dead ipod and this disconnect has been driving me crazy. I have spent several hours looking in the same 10 places and each time – disappointment. It’s turned into that fridge scenario: When you’re hungry and you just keep opening the refrigerator door as if ‘poof’ a steaming plate of spaghetti will magically appear.
This morning in our mad dash to get ready for our respective jobs I busted into the bathroom, where Violet was, and said,”Sorry, Violet! But I just had a vision! I think that the connector thingy might be in this cabnit here…”
I shuffled through a few things on the top shelf and voila, there it was! (Why was it there? Don’t know and not the point!). I held it up, like the sword that had just been removed from the stone, and made applause noises for myself as I bowed.
“See, I told you Violet! I had a VISION.”
Looking a bit unimpressed she says, “Um, I think that is called a memory, but whatever, good for you. Now, get out of here, please.
Ah, sweet victory. Sweet victory indeed.
I know I know, where the hell have I been? I know. I know. I’ve been here and I’ve been there and life is a bit on the busy side, but good. Violet is fabulously, beautifully, wonderful. The Seal is awesome. Fraidy is freezing his little fish balls off and moving quite slowly, but he’s all good. I haven’t seen Marcus in a while, but I’m sure he’s happy doing his little raccoon thing. I have had an extended block from making time for this blogo’mine and I promise to get back in the swing. Promise.
For now, the inspiration for a quick post is this:
Home Alive needs help! A lot and soon.
This organization was born 16 years ago, after Mia Zapata was raped and killed while walking home late at night. Her friends, a group of women, got together and created self defense classes that teach everyone that you can wear whatever you want, walk home whenever you want, love whoever you want, look however you want, do what ever you want, believe whatever you want and that you have the inherent right to be safe and free from violence of any kind.
“You are worth defending. I am worth defending. In my heels and in my running shoes, in my skirt and cleavage and in my drag king drag. We are all always worth defending.” (Home Alive)
I’ve taken one of their classes and it was more than amazing. It instantly became an essential piece to who. I. am.
The website, savehomealive.org, is attempting to raise 25 thousand dollars for Home Alive, their current debt amount. I’ve donated and hope you will consider. Like the website says, “if you can’t donate, don’t and don’t sweat it” but getting the word out can only help. If you have blogads ad space Sinclair will put the banner up on your site if you send him your free ad code. If you don’t have blogads ad space, steal the banner I have up and you can link it that way.
Thanks to all in advance. More soon, I promise!
-jj-
Last night in mid-conversation with a favorite friend of mine, my knuckle still wrapped in a napkin, I uttered this, “I guess with me butch isn’t a noun, it’s an adjective.”
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There are a few things going on with me for a few reason. I’m alive, so that is always cause for action and it’s a new year which always inspires me to initiate moves and goals and reassess things. My new favorite president has a speech that remarks, “there has never been anything false about hope” and I like that. A lot. I like that it is literal, inspiring and it is true – I find those three hard to match up a lot of the time.
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Yesterday I cut my finger pretty good. It was a strange, slow cut right below the knuckle. It was deep and I could see inside. I could see the entire walls of my flesh, thick like I imagined but had never actually seen. And the blood started out so slowly that there was a fleeting second where i could see my bone. White and totally unphased by the puncture. Strong.
In hindsight, I surprised myself with my reaction. I was calm and curious. I just stood there and stared. I didn’t try to change or fix anything. I peeked inside and I didn’t feel uncomfortable feeling uncomfortable. I mean it hurt, but not too much. I was fascinated. And I’m ok with blood for the most part but it does usually strike an urge in me to stop it. I struggle with this with crying too. I think of tears and blood as things that need to be stopped. Anyway, this time I felt like the bleeding was just a part of it and was the only way that I could have looked inside my own self. Literally.
So, I stood there, pulling back the newly divided pieces of my finger, and let the blood run down my hand and my arm and I started to make this new connection that I’m not sure how to spell out yet. But it has something to do with looking past the first layer of things, the assumptions.
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I’ve never claimed butch before because I only let it be a noun, I assumed it was.
I just googled ‘noun’ and found this: “Whatever exists, we assume, can be named, and that name is a noun.” So when I undo that assumption and make butch an adjective, defined as: a word that describes or modifies another person or thing in the sentence” then it fits.
This post does not have a point. But that is apart of the stream of things I am paying more attention to, working on. I tend to find things without an obvious point to lack purpose. And when I can’t see the point or feel a purpose to something (noun) I feel quite uncomfortable (adjective) in my own skin (literally). I want to learn to be less uncomfortable feeling uncomfortable – which is why this mess is getting posted.
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Happy New Year everyone.
I have once again waited until the last of the year to do almost everything. This last week was my desperate run to take advantage of the insurance benefits that i am so lucky to have. That meant two trips to the dentist and a physical, followed by another trip to the dentist next week. My teeth came in perfectly, never had braces, but they are of a Brittish gene pool which means the trouble they hide behind that seemingly perfectly healthy smile, is really no one’s fault.
Yesterday I went in for a yearly physical which my insurance covers completely, so why not. I scheduled it two weeks ago and at some point asked Violet if a physical included checkin’ out my bizniss? And she quickly said she didn’t think so. I even mentioned this appointment to a co-worker and asked her the same question, only I replaced ‘checkin out my bizniss’ with ‘you know’ assuming that any variation leading to a direct reference to anywhere near my vagina was probably inappropriate work conversation. She said, ‘Oh no, huh uh, no… no, you have to specify that.” And so I got on with my life. Not that I don’t think getting a pap smear isn’t important, it is very important. I also don’t carry any fear or anxiety around it like I do the dentist. It’s just one of those things that I would like to be aware of beforehand, to prepare in ways, both physically and mentally.
So, yesterday I walk into my doctor’s office, a doctor whom I adore, and the assistant told me to undress into that buttless robe and that the doctor would be in soon for my annual. I immediately replied, “wait, wait, annual or physical? I’m here for a physical.” And the assistant said, “Sure, a physical which includes a pap smear of course.” And she walked out.
In hind sight, I guess I should have prepared anyway, just in case. When I’m going to the dentist I floss and brush right before hand – regardless of what the visit will actually entail. So, by myself in the room I dropped trow and began to give myself my own mini-exam. I bent over and began to snoop around a bit. My overall take on things was that my bizniss was fine. Fine enough to have an unexpected visit by the doctor.
The actual event was unremarkable and over within minutes. And per the usual I had to help her find my uterus, which is quite tilted from what I have been told. The first time I had a pap smear it took three different doctors to find it – which, one, was quite awkward and two, included a fleeting moment of my thinking that maybe I didn’t have a uterus and that this was probably why I was a lesbian. Loose connections I know, but at the time it felt like a flawless theory.
Eventually, doctor number three found my tiny little guy hiding way back and over to the left – which is exactly how I direct doctors to date. They get in there, give that curious look with a faint little ‘huh’ and I chime in with, “oh, it’s there, it’s just hiding way back and over to the left. And the doctor says, “ah, there she is” and then we’re done. We have that little bit of after-chat, pants get put back on and voila, another clean bill of health for another year before I have to have my doctor all up in my bizniss again.
3 a.m.
my brain: “Can’t sleep, can’t sleep. Must sleep, must sleep… What to do? Hmm, Violet is lookin’ mighty pretty…”
5 minutes later
my brain: “Fail. Oh well, just try to sleep.”
6:45 a.m.
Alarm goes off. I roll over to cuddle with Violet.
Violet: “Were you seriously trying to seduce me at 3 in the morning?!?”
Me: “Baby, I have neeeeeeeeeeds.”
Violet: “Well, you neeeeeeeed to get your neeeeeeeeeds to neeeeeeeeed at a reasonable hour!”
About 4 years ago I lived with my godparents, Ruth and Harold. A few months prior to my moving in Harold had been diagnosed with a pretty aggressive cancer and as they are two of the most important people in my life and both in their 80’s I offered to move in and help out where I could. Towards the end of Harold’s life he was in bed full time with Hospice folks coming in and out to help take care of different things.
As Harold began to swing in and out of consciousness the amount of care he needed became an around the clock job. Eventually, day and night became of no use or matter to him and so, being on his schedule, it had little to do with my life either.
Sometimes at night, after Ruth would go to bed, there would be this eerie moment of quiet normalcy about the house. For a few hours, around 10 or 11p.m. we were all doing what everyone else was doing. Ruth and Harold would both be sleeping and I would go off into the TV room and try to unwind a bit before I went to bed. I’d try to zone out on the TV over a few beers or some of Ruth’s Wild Turkey that I found hidden up high in the cupboard above the stove.
As I’d watch TV at night I learned to divide my attention in half, so that I could relax a bit. Half of me would watch television and the other half stayed tuned in to Harold’s oxygen machine, making sure it was always a consistent rhythm. That oxygen machine became a strange and soothing lullaby of sorts: as long as I could hear it fill and release I could relax and with my bedroom across the hall from Harold and Ruth, that machine became the song that put me to sleep.
One night in the TV room I ran into the show, Six Feet Under, that I had never heard of before. I caught an episode in the middle of the third season and was instantly swept away. It quickly became the only consistent appointment I kept. At 10p.m. on Thursdays I would settle in to catch the latest episode. The show absolutely fascinated me. It was a strange show that came at strange timing on a strange subject and it felt like a strange mirror that I held up to see a bigger picture than I would have found on my own, in that little house. And every once in a while there would be a bit of dialog that would unexpectedly break me, make me cry, making more room for what I was in for.
Harold passed away about a month after I moved in and I ended up living with Ruth for about 8 months after that (in which time I met Violet, stories to come). Harold died in a sort of peace that I would not have imagined possible.
Every once in a while I’ll re-watch an episode or two, just because it is such a great show and in an admittedly strange way, I start to miss the characters now and then. Last night I watched an episode and heard one of my favorite exchanges between David and his dad (his dad has been dead for a few years at this point). I heard it for the first time about a month after Harold passed away.
(both staring out of a sunny window in David’s house)
Dad: The point is right in front of your face.
David: Well I’m sorry but I don’t see it.
Dad: You’re not even grateful are you?
David: Grateful? For the worst fucking experience of my life?
Dad: You hang on to your pain like it means something, like it’s worth something. Well, let me tell you, it’s not worth shit. Let it go… Infinite possibilities and all he can do is whine.
David: Well, what am I suppose to do?
Dad: What do you think? You can do anything you lucky bastard, you’re alive. What’s a little pain compared to that?
David: It can’t be so simple
Dad: What if it is.
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