RIP Janoct Ajda 1949-2013, Earth...

Surprisingly, I don’t remember the first time I met him. He just always showed up at the coffee shop, telling stories about seemingly crazy adventures while riding the rails. I often wondered if he was full of shit, but the fact that I possibly knew an actual hobo was way more interesting than trying to cipher through exaggerations. And frankly, even if he made it all up, he was so captivating it didn’t really matter.

Captivating, definitely, at times to the point where I almost felt captive. The man’s attitude and energy were aggravating to me at certain points in my life, when I wasn’t healthy.

INVITE PEOPLE INTO YOUR LIFE
I think I was jealous that someone knew how to live so large. And large wasn’t about things, it was about ideas and experiences. The mayoral runs weren’t about winning. They were about doing what he thought was right. They were about getting people involved and communicating. Janoct was so good at bringing people into his realm.

WORK HARD & MAKE THINGS RIGHT
I remember a Sunday in August, back in 2010, that terribly hot summer. I’d been griping to the slumlord, bless his soul, about getting the trees trimmed. They hanged awkwardly into my yard and were taking over his. They were growing into the house. You read that right.

I was getting ready to go to a Dylan concert in Lincoln and as I walked out into my backyard, who did I see all rigged up in the slumlord’s trees? Janoct, of course. The man could work like a horse. There he was, in his 60s, the tree probably had a couple decades on him, a hundred degrees outside and he’s yelling, “Hey girl!” without missing a beat.

One of the larger branches he was trimming fell and took a little notch off one of my fence pickets. It really wasn’t a big deal, but he apologized and said he’d make it right. He replaced the picket within the week.

DO THE UNEXPECTED
Janoct was a fixture downtown, stopping in at the local shops and events. Back in September of this year, I was involved in a recovery-themed art show. Since my medium of artistic expression is cake, I designed and caked a special cake for the show.
We hadn’t run into each other in awhile, so I was pretty excited to see him and experience that energy he brought everywhere. There’s a great picture of us taken that night.

I pointed out my cake and he said, "Girl, you can't bring a cake and not expect a Black man to eat it."

I told him to go ahead and have some. I figured we'd eat the cake at some point during the show anyway. He marched right over to it and cut a big hunk out. Some of the attendees were worried that I would be upset, like he’d defaced the cake or something. It was pretty awesome. He grabbed the hunk of cake and brought it over to Haskett’s for our friends to enjoy. Leave it to Janoct to turn my cake into performance art.

KNOW WHEN TO BE QUIET
I remember sitting by the window at the coffee shop one day, just wanting to not be bothered. Because someone who doesn’t want to be bothered would naturally go to the coffee shop where she knows 90% of the patrons. I did the “My ear buds are in and I’m obviously working on homework, so move along” set up at my table, thinking that would kindly move people along.

I had recently been through a strange break-up and the details of said break-up were still spilling through the community, as they often do. Of course, several people stopped to say something… who they were or what they said escapes me now, but what I do remember was Janoct walking over to my table with that, “Hey girl” look on his face and he just kissed the top of my head and walked away.
At that moment, I was thinking, “What the hell?” Still being hurt and unhealthy myself, I was slightly offended by his gesture. I was such a ball of anger at that point in my life. I just sat there and fumed a bit, pissed off at anything and anyone.

I thought of that moment today and I bawled. Janoct, one of the most talkative people I’ve ever met, showed me kindness in the most gentle way, with a kiss on the top of my head. He knew I was hurting, shit, the whole town knew I was hurting and instead of trying to get details from me or offer advice, he simply let me know he cared.

Cycling Newsman said, ”Janoct talked to everybody. There were times when it seemed that life was just one long conversation to him, just bouncing from person to person as they passed in and out of his sphere.”

For those of us fortunate enough to stay in the sphere awhile, we’ll be telling his stories and missing his smile. No matter how you knew him—Candidate, Christian, Hobo, Storyteller, Friend, you won’t forget him. And if you didn’t know him, stop by Black Sheep or M.B. Haskett and I’m sure someone will fill you in…

RIP Janoct Ajda 1949-2013, Earth

I Love the Paws...

I did the TC Marathon over the weekend. I've been starting to reflect on the experience and hoping to craft a decent blog for you, dear readers. It was a bit overwhelming, to be honest, and I just can't process it all yet. So I had to do something silly in the meanwhile.

I drove up to St. Paul on Saturday afternoon and was doing a bit of radio hopping. The drive up Highway 60 was a bit nostalgic for me, thinking of driving up to the Dome for a Twins game with my family and of traveling lots of highway miles for high school events. The radio stations are great while traveling--I love local commercials. But the format was predictable in the country, classic rock, or pop formats. I listened to a lot of pop radio. Full disclosure, I am not a pop music hater. I love me some Katy Perry, Kelly Clarkson, and Pink. But the song I kept hearing over and over again was "Applause" by Lady Gaga. And I also love me some Gaga. So I penned 2BDL-appropriate lyrics... there may or may not be an Instagram video of the birth of this floating around. I'm sure Gaga will use these alternate lyrics on her next tour...


"The Paws"

[Verse 1:]
You sit here waiting for me to grab the leash
To crash the critic saying, "Is it short or is it long?"
If only love had an I.V., Brownhead I could bear
Being away from you, I found the vein, put it in here

I love Alli’s paws, the paws, the paws
I love Joey’s paws-paws
Love the Brownhead paws-paws
Love for the way that you run and run with me
The run, walk, run, walk, run

Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real far)
Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real fast)

(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real far
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real fast
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run

[Verse 2:]
I've overheard a theory "That is just a dog"
Hell no sir, watch your tongue, & come with us for a jog
Those little Brownhead babies trained me for a marathon
They’ll go for 20 miles and be your heart when you get home

I love Alli’s paws, the paws, the paws
I love Joey’s paws-paws
Love the Brownhead paws-paws
Love for the way that you run and run with me
The run, walk, run, walk, run

Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real far)
Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real fast)


(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real far
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real fast
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run

[Bridge:]
Run, run
Run, run now
Ooh-ooh-ooh-hoo
Ooh-ooh-ooh-hoo
Ooh-ooh-ooh-hoo
Ooh-ooh

I love Alli’s paws, the paws, the paws
I love Joey’s paws-paws
Love the Brownhead paws-paws
Love for the way that you run and run with me
The run, walk, run, walk, run

Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real far)
Give me that thing that I love (Runnin’ with the Bitches)
Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run (make it real fast)

(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real far
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Make it real fast
(R-U-N-N-I-N-G) Lace my shoes up, make 'em run, run

B-I-T-C-H-E-S

More Than Words...

I just saw a little comic, like a drawing, not a short comedian, on The Book that caught my attention. Drawn by a 14 year old, it was a four panel illustration titled, "The Value of a Dog."

The first panel showed a girl siting in the corner, all by herself. She's curled up and her head is down, she's obviously upset about something. In the next panel, she starts to cry and her dog pokes it's little face into the frame, matching it's sniffs with the girl's sniffles. In the third panel, the dog approaches her and she looks up, while in the final panel the dog is snuggled into her arm, comforting her as she wipes her tears away.

Sigh. Sniffle. Truth.

My favorite part of the comic is that there are no words. The intuitiveness of a dog. I know they can't speak our human words in our human languages, but I doubt they would even if they could. They are far too smart for that and they trust their feelings in a way that is completely foreign to most of us humans. Many of us are fixers or we over process our feelings, like we can't just own the feelings; we have to assign special meanings to them (yes, I am totally guilty) or inflate our senses of self-worth with them.

Both of the bitches are being extra snuggly and protective tonight. They pick up the energy. It was one of those days in which a few tears were shed. Two people I care very deeply about are struggling with cancer. One had some pretty good news, while the other's wasn't so great. Two people I love more than nearly any other humans are struggling with addiction. One got wasted today and the other called me from treatment to say hello. I have to recognize that balance and be grateful that there is healing in this world. And I am going to try and help my friends with a cue from my Bitches--that sometimes, just being there for them and their families, is the best gift I can give. No words are needed. A listening ear and a hug, just like the paw that's draped over my foot as I type.

There is an art to demo...

It's quiet in my house. It isn't particularly late, but the Bitches are napping, as is Man Friend. The dishwasher is sloshing along in all its glory. I wonder if it realizes it will be the first appliance to go once I've saved up the money for a new one. I wonder why I always personify inanimate objects.

Yes, the remodel is still going. The going is slow, but I have three turtle tatts and only one hare, so you know where I fall on that side of the story. It's always functional--we won't starve for lack of ability to cook. And while it might be easy to get frustrated at the lack of speed in the process of the remodel, I can't help but think it's a larger metaphor for what's going on in my life.

For anyone who had never been to my house before the wall came down, (and yes, there were Gorbachev jokes) you'll just have to imagine how dark and small the dining room felt. Now, with the wall between the kitchen and dining room out there's an open run through the entire south side of the house. Natural light at the dining room table is no longer a dream.

Just getting the wall down was quite a feat, as the house was built in 1925, when lathe and plaster was the norm. I knew that hanging pictures was a chore, but I didn't appreciate the dusty, choking mess of ripping into that beast. Man Friend was completely in charge; he kept saying, "There is an art to demo."

I had TV images of home improvement shows with sledge hammers and wrecking balls in mind when I heard demo. I was afraid. New motto? #trustmanfriend

I never contemplated the finesse of an artisan in relation to doing a demo. I was thinking Shaq when I should have been thinking Grant Hill.

We're both in states of change, Man Friend and I, and I think it may result in a huge time of growth for each of us. If we're lucky, our relationship will be included. I guess we're both doing some life demo and my usual bull in a china shop approach to change seems extreme and a bit immature when I remember that there is an art to demo.

75,000 Reasons to Shut Your Mouth, Sir...

I'm not overly excited about the Spurs/Heat match-up for the NBA Finals this year. Normally, watching any basketball is a decent way to spend time, no matter the level of play. I still think OKC would be in this if Westbrook wasn't injured, but they all have bigger fish to fry in that part of the country right now and the actual games aren't the point of my rant.

I want to slap Roy Hibbert.

I'm not going to get on a plane and hunt him down to slap him. I know that physically slapping him wouldn't do any good or solve anything. Commissioner Stern already fined him for his mouth, although 75,000 dollars to him is probably like me forgetting to pay a parking ticket. So, I will slap him the only way I can--the blog slap.

The homophobia in sports is just irritating. The heterocentric nature of some sports, especially among males, has got to go. I remember a season or two ago, Kobe had to pay a 100K fine for calling a ref a "fa**ot" after they disagreed on a call. News flash dude, the cameras are rolling, the world is watching. You are a role model. I don't care about "just because I dunk a basketball, I shouldn't raise your kids" Barkley commercial from when I was a kid. You are a role model. You are a role model. You are a role model. When you sign that contract, you become a role model, for better or worse. Kids look up to you and want to be like you. Call me crazy, but I think that calls for an ounce of social responsibility. Don't want any responsibility? Accountability? SEE: ALLEN IVERSON.

When Jason Collins came out early this year, there was a bit of the "Nobody celebrates openly Christian athletes, like Tim Tebow." I also don't recall anyone mocking any Christian athletes or using anti-Christian slurs during press conferences. I don't remember reading any stories about kids committing suicide for being teased about being Christian or being perceived as being Christian on the radar lately.

Kids who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgendered, or PERCEIVED as such, are often the targets of bullies. Growing up sucks enough, but imagine being bullied and possibly having to keep that type of secret about who you are from your friends and family. Brittney Griner, who plays for the Mercury, was asked to keep her sexuality to herself when she played at Baylor, as her coach feared it would hurt the recruiting process at the Christian university.

According to the Suicide Prevention Resource Center, between 30 and 40% of LGBT youth, depending on age and sex groups, have attempted suicide. We need more Brittney Griner and Jason Collins-caliber athletes to come out and be role models for these kids. We need the Kobe Bryants and Roy Hibberts of the world to realize the power and impact that their words have.

Maybe Roy should take another 75K and deliver it to a youth center or counseling program. He might save a life.

They aren't all misogynists...

I haven't made it to the new Star Trek movie. Yet. Big yet there. I love sci-fi, not necessarily books, but sci-fi movies. Something appeals to my nerd and my sense of wonder simultaneously, whether it's Event Horizon or Blade Runner. For better, worse, or a bit of both, it's interesting to watch a director's take on our potential. I guess by saying potential, I really give myself away--my favorite part of sci-fi is how technology changes the human experience, or how we interact with it. Star Wars without R2D2 or C3PO? Nope. Looper? Never. And other than the obvious, like the Maxtrix or the Force, there are guiding principles and ideas in which great sci-fi actually teaches us about our humanity.


So, although I own no Vulcan ears and wouldn't profess to be a super fan, I'm always down for a new installment of Star Trek. And while my nerdiness never made me watch all the installments of The Next Generation on FOX, I do like Patrick Stewart. Obviously, he also gets X-Men points, but that's not what I'm getting at here. I always thought he was a good actor. I never read any crazy press about him. He just seemed like a decent dude who landed some career-defining roles and had a big audience of fans. But then I saw a video of him at a comic convention (see previously mentioned fan base) and now I have quite a bit of respect for him as a person. He spoke very openly about growing up in a home in which his mother was abused and because he witnessed that, he has been an advocate for a UK group that provides services for victims of domestic violence. He also spoke of how he's learned that his father suffered from PTSD from his service in WWII, so he now also does work with an organization that assists vets returning from war zones. I admire him for not blaming, but rather working to understand the totality of the issues within his family and instead of continuing to be a victim, discussing these issues and working to help others.


It's easy to forget how much our childhoods define us. While we might grow up, we never grow out of our experiences. The real key that defines us as adults is what we do with those experiences. If we had a stable, loving environment, it's easy to take it for granted. I'm only now really beginning to realize what chaos can do to a child.


"I do what I do in my mother's name because I couldn't help her then."


You could hear the little boy in his voice as he said that.


"Now I can."

Girl... You'll Be A Woman...

One of Man Friend's friends stopped by the other night. We hadn't seen him in a long time and it was nice to catch up. He used to just live a few blocks away, so I got to know him fairly well last summer and found him to be a really cool, sincere guy. He also works in construction, so he and Man Friend always had plenty to talk about. He had gone through a messy divorce and was sharing custody of his three kids; I always liked to hear stories about what the kids were up to, so naturally, I asked how the kids were.

"Oh good," he said quickly, and then paused. "My oldest daughter got her, you know, period thing," he said and started turning bright red.

You all know I'm evil, so I couldn't help myself and started laughing and kept saying, "Period thing," and laughing demonically.

I forgot how much a period can freak a dude out.

I always look at periods like a gift since it means you're not knocked up.

I forgot how much a period can freak a dude out. Like really freak a dude out. Even a cool-headed, incredibly loving father-type dude.

Especially a dude who didn't have sisters to torment him about periods or make him understand that tampons in the bathroom cupboard aren't scary. You'd think tampons were live grenades the way some guys shrink in fear at the sight of a feminine product.

So of course our poor single dad friend didn't have any products in the house. He started calling his mom, his ex-wife, his girlfriend, anyone with ovaries who might help. Of course, it was the one time no one in his contact list with experience riding the crimson wave was answering their phone.

He did what any good dad would do. He headed to Walmart. I'm sure the only pads he'd ever bought in his life were brake pads, so I can only imagine the level of anxiety on that trip.

"Did she come with you?" I asked.

"No, I told her hang tight and not sit on the couch."

More demonic laughter from this bitch, like a little seventh grade girl's first period is gonna be something like the elevator blood scene in "The Shining" or maybe the locker room scene from "Carrie?" Do guys learn about periods from Stephen King novels? This is a problem. And a mandate for comprehensive sex ed in our schools.

"So she just stayed in the bathroom?" I asked.

"I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO!" he replied, still blushing.

"So you went to Walmart..."

"Yes, I went to Walmart..."

"And a lady who worked there helped you?"

"Well, I asked her if all the pad things were the same and she said they were."

"OH MY GOD," I said, "Did you buy the poor little thing foot-long, inch-thick pads with wings? They are not all the same! Did you get pads that were the size of her thigh?"

Of course there was a thought of poor little girl, I'm sure she was embarrassed and scared. But then I also thought, they got through it. She can ask her mom any old questions she wants when she's at her house. And her dad handled it the best he could, even if he still thinks...

Tonight, My Heart is in Boston...

I have been reduced to tears more times in the past week than I would like to admit.

Sometimes, it's just all a little overwhelming, which really is a nice effect of actually feeling emotions, instead of sacking them away somewhere in a pool of booze. The non-stop media coverage, the social media feeds, and the photos are simultaneously horrifying and comforting. It's fucked beyond words how hurt someone must be to hurt innocent people; yet it's also comforting to see the humanity in people helping out others.

Last week at this time, I was watching the finals of the NCAA men's basketball tournament. This is always a big deal at my house. I remembered fairly quickly that Louisville won, but I really had to stretch to remember that they played Michigan, which is funny because I was cheering for Michigan. It seemed really exciting and important a week ago.

The Bitches woke me up early last Tuesday morning, whining to go outside. Since it was still very dark out, I was barely awake, until I opened the back door and the icy wind and rain hit me. I was instantly awake and slightly confused at the "spring" weather. It was so cold and crappy, the Bitches did quick business and were ready to go back in the house. So when I finally made a permanent move out of bed a couple hours later, the thick layer of ice coating the trees was not completely surprising, but entirely upsetting.

It was entirely upsetting because I love to run. I love to run outside, attached to my Bitches. I love to run down our sidewalks and around our bike trails. The Bitches are probably what has ultimately saved me from myself, but running is a close second and putting the two together eliminates anxiety and depression better than anything a lab could come up with. The other beautiful part of running is exploring the town in which I live in a way that someone buzzing around in a car could never appreciate. What's great about my 'hood, our parks, and our trails?

Our trees.

I literally want to hug the trees.

Because the layer of ice that started the branches snapping and falling, well, fall was the operative word, because then the snow started falling. Several inches of wet, heavy snow that our trees just couldn't hold. The metaphor is just too obvious, the trees are just like us... they stand as strong as they can, but anything, when weighted down enough, eventually breaks.

So this is what I woke up to on Wednesday morning:




My backyard, with huge limbs and branches strewn all about, a broken fence, a cable line buried somewhere, and a power line soon to follow, looked like quite a disaster. As soon as the snow stopped falling, Man Friend started chopping up the big ones. The biggest one is still propped up on the garage as I type.

Yes, my neighborhood looks like a war zone. Thanks to the hard work of the linemen and the street crews, the lights are now on and the streets are now passable. Yes, there are still branches blocking some sidewalks. And yes, our trees took a beating from the storm. But we'll be out running again soon, like tomorrow soon. I saw a man out running on 18th Street after dark on Saturday night, dodging fallen branches, and I just had to smile, because that's how runners are. They just want to get out and run.

So my little world was shaken up last week and I prayed for it to return to normal. I try to always find reasons to be grateful and thankful for all the blessings in my life. After all, compared to many in my city, we didn't lose power for very long, and thanks to some wonderful local electricians, the mast that had been ripped off the house was replaced and we were safe.

When I woke up this morning, I was excited for the Boston Marathon. I don't know that I will ever be able to qualify, but for runners, it's the premier marathon, with thousands and thousands of spectators lining every foot of the course and cheering the runners on. It's our World Series, it's Christmas, you get the idea. Several people I know have run it and had an absolutely fantastic experience. My friend, Ed, ran it today and set a PR, and my understanding was that less than an hour later was when the terror happened. Thankfully, he is safe.

I would say that I can't wrap my head around this yet, but I don't know that this is something I will ever be able to wrap my head around. That I was so upset about tree limbs laying in my yard seems ridiculous when I think about human limbs laying near the finish line. The line where a runner leaves it all behind.

I know we will all keep thinking about this throughout the coming days and weeks, especially for those of us who run. So I don't quite know what to say yet, but came across this on the Book earlier and I think it says it best.




<3 <3 <3

Flipping Out...

I spent 20 minutes last night trying to explain to someone the difference between a text message and an MMS message.

The someone, we'll call him Spartacus, is in his early 60s and usually buzzed on alcohol, so that might have had something to do with the length and tone of the conversation.

I don't know if it's fair to say "usually buzzed." When he doesn't drink at all, he's quite a delightful individual. When he drinks, it can turn into a clown car shit show pretty quickly. Since he had spend some time at several of the local watering holes, including the Cesspool, it was probably time to start throwing bowling pins.

But this isn't a diatribe on Spartacus' drinking, it's a commentary on what a simple age gap can mean in the realm of technology. You see, Spartacus is old school. He does use a cell phone, although it's a simple, old school flip phone variety that a kid would stare at with the same wonderment as a rotary phone. We've all gone touch screen, or at least smart, it seems.

I remember giggling at a couple of elderly ladies having lunch last week talking about their iPhone3gs like they were the greatest thing ever.

That's so 2009, ladies, but it's adorbs that you have an iPhone. Don't you love the camera???

Spartacus likes to send pics that he takes. Sometimes, he sends those pics to several people in the same message. Several people, as in a group, or perhaps if similarly attired, a gang.

Anyone under 40 sees where this is going.

I can always tell when he sent the pic to another friend, because she will usually respond, and since it's a group MMS message, I just figure whatev and delete it if it annoys me.

I guess the grown-ups never got the message about deleting.

Yesterday turned into a flurry of group messaging madness, or hilarity, as I saw it.

The original message was a pic of some of the girls from a local college basketball team who just finished their season. They did really well, reaching the Final Four of their division, so Spartacus took a pic and sent it to all of us hoops lovers in his contact list. Cool. That was last week.

Then the replies began:

A: Where are you?

B: 18th--join us

Me: This message is set on group convo. Lolz.

B: Haha

A: Where are you?

B: Where do u think

C: May I get off your group

(We could have taken that a WHOLE different direction...)

Me: 18th street w/bitches

(It's too fun not to play along when you feel like you're in the middle of the table at the retirement home.)

D: Me too. Who is originating this?

Me: Lol... me too!

A: Are we playing golf tomorrow?

Me: Spartacus' pic

A: This is A. Are we plsying golf tomorrow? I'm with E.

B: Take me out of the group message please

Me: Delete the original

D: Is it coming from Spartacus?

Me: Yes. The pic of the bb girls. Delete.

F: Spartacus - take me off of your mass text messaging lunacy.

Then party G, who's in my age group, sends me a separate text messages and asks what the hell is going on and why he's getting a gazillion weird messages. Yes, he was on the first hoops pic group.

At this point, I thought the whole thing was dead in the water. I thought they would all just delete the original message, so they wouldn't keep replying to it. Or if they were smart enough to have a smart enough phone, switch to individual messages, like I can on my Galaxy.

But apparently everyone was out for drinks and Spartacus thought someone was trying to be cute and getting the "whole thing cranked up" and couldn't understand why "a message from LAST WEEK could cause all these problems."

Sorry, I need a minute to stop and laugh.

He called me last night dying for an explanation. Texts = words, or text, and MMS = Multimedia Message Service, like pics, videos, texts, or combos of them seemed to make sense. Getting into how smartphones store messages and the difference between individual and group messages wasn't computing for the drunk flip phoner. After numerous attempts, I finally told him we would have to put our phones next to each other sometime, sober, so he could see the differences.

I remember explaining the internet to my grandma once, back in like 2001, and telling her it was sort of like TV, through the computer, except you had way more information available. Good enough for her.

Have my explanatory skills gone downhill? Or perhaps my audience?

In the Key of Life...

There were musical people on each side of my family so I'm not entirely certain why I didn't stick with an instrument or try to progress past what I am: a mediocre karaoke singer, a bit more style than substance, not completely awful, but no one will turn his or her head to see if the face matches the angel's voice.

My dad's entire immediate family sang in the church choir together and his mother also played the organ at church. That was something of a mystery to me, my little gray-haired Grandma Mil, playing processionals and hymns, holding the power of the huge pipe organ in her small hands. I'm sure she hit a few wrong notes, but I didn't notice. I couldn't.

Grandma Mil also had a little home organ that was really fun. My brother and I had more fun playing with the different beat modes and pretending we were Stevie Wonder than actually trying to learn to play anything. One of my cousins did rock out a mean version of "Another One Bites the Dust," though, so I guess we weren't all musically lost.

On my mom's side of the family there were marching band competitions and all-state chorus records. I think the clarinet and flute that they played might still be at our house. They had a family piano out at the farm as well.

Both of my brothers and I are jukebox kids--we sing along to all the old stuff on the radio. I guess maybe it is in our blood a bit. The older one played trumpet in high school, but neither Tiny T or myself lasted in with an instrument or choir. They both married girls who play piano and I do have an odd track record of dating musicians & lovers of music.

About a month ago, my mom was on one of her pitching and sorting tears through her home. Since she's a bit of a packrat, my dad encourages this. Her target on this round? The piano and the organ.

Sigh...

They needed to make some room for an elliptical machine and since I whole-hearted support anyone's efforts for better health, I was on-board.

But I can't lie, there was a tiny sting at the thought of getting rid of the organ and memories of Tiny T banging out "Radio in the Bathtub" for anyone who would listen. I remembered doing many, not enough, but many practice sessions at the piano. Mastering "It's a Small World" and "The Greatest Love of All" were big accomplishments of my youth. The issue was that I was just memorizing and not really learning, so that's why Fiona Apple is Fiona Apple and I'm me.

To mom's credit, she offered both instruments up to us kids first. Both of the previously mentioned sisters-in-law already have pianos and children with lots of crap, so both quickly passed. I'm nothing if not honest, so I have to admit that I did consider taking the piano for a moment, thinking I might morph into John Lennon for a second and actually learn this time and somehow get lost in my own amazingness. And then I remember that I'm basically lazy and waste my gifts... plus getting that motherfucker into my house would have been a nightmare.

Note to self: Add Keyboard to list of things to purchase when the time is right. The list currently contains Convection Oven and Hybrid Commuter Bike. I have faith that I will know when the time is right.

Upon the acceptance that neither the piano or organ would never live with me, I did the first thing that any savvy social networker would do, I offered them up on The Book. I was little disappointed that posting "Anyone interested in a free piano or organ?" only merited one request for a kidney. I was pretty shocked at the instant responses I received, both on The Book and via text. People like free instruments. The piano was especially interesting to many. It was an old Packard upright. Nothing extravagant, but well-cared for, in short, exactly what you would expect from a family of hard-working Dutch/Germans. :)

And in the end, through all the requests and the logistical issues of getting the instruments from my parents' home in Pipestone County to their new home, I think they ended up exactly where they need to be.

Both are now at The Retreat at Pointer's Ridge, which is an artists' retreat just north of Sioux Falls. I lifted this from the website, if you haven't heard of it:

"Beginning in Spring 2013, it will serve as an incubator for creative discovery, and a place to find the quiet needed for focus to develop artistic skills in a non-judgmental environment.

Exhibitions, lectures, concerts and other activities will promote social interaction between artists and community. Workshops and camps can be held for children and adults; art classes and one-on-one instruction for adults will be especially encouraged.

All those desiring a venue where quiet and natural surroundings give rise to contemplative thinking and creative focus will be welcome!"



I'm sure both of my grandmothers are happier knowing that, rather than collecting dust or serving as a makeshift bookshelf, both instruments will be helping to inspire people.

Wag Out, Be Free...

One of my friends joked the other day that there should be a support group for the Man Friends of those of us who are obsessed with our dogs. His lady friend is as totally and completely, head over paws in love with her fury child, Oliver, as I am with my bitches. A little good natured ribbing about how the dog doesn't talk so he's better than the Man Friend ensued. And of course I immediately rattled off a list of reasons I love Alli and Joey more than people.

They are always happy to see me. They are excited to eat no matter how many times I feed them the same thing. They protect me. They make me exercise. Their ears are like velvet. They are more loyal than any human is capable of. They don't drink...

They don't accuse me of things I didn't do, like lying. They don't make me feel guilty for things I did do, like eat the last of the ice cream. They never want to fight about money and they could care less about stuff. If they do something bad, they do harbor some guilt, but they get over it so quickly. They don't judge if I take a day or three too long to vacuum the rugs. They keep right on wagging when I sing off-key. They listen.

All they want is my love and my time. Just me.

The Man Friends shouldn't have a support group, they should have a thank-you kibble feed. Dogs give us so much more than we give them. Yeah, I know every cat person on the planet will tell you what a ridiculous statement that is. But the responsibility of caring for a dog gave me my life back. I learned how to trust again because of the Bitches. I learned how to have a schedule again because of the Bitches. I learned that a healthy self-discipline is one of life's greatest gifts because of the Bitches. The Bitches made my heart bigger; they taught me to love.

When I was getting ready for work this morning, the girls watched me from the hallway, as they often do. Looking into those eyes just melts me and I said, "For all the shit I've done wrong in this life, I must have done something right to get you two."

They were probably thinking, "That's a good voice--she's HAPPY! WAG!"

Wag out, Bitches. Be free.

I Am So Glad You Are Here To Mansplain That To Me...

Mansplaining is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo annoying.

Like really, really annoying. I just was involved in a fairly long, completely meaningless thread on The Book that started as a young woman's articulate post on her disapproval of the restrictive abortion heartbeat law in North Dakota. I was one of over 100 people who liked it. It wasn't snarky or sarcastic, just her reaction to being upset about the law. The first handful of comments were supportive or tolerant. And then it turned into the Man Show.

Men talking about how life is a miracle, how abortion leads to regrets, and how the government doesn't force anyone to have sex. No sir, actually our fellow humans seeped in rape culture do force people to have sex sometimes.

And the men kept mansplaining... morals, ethics, consequences, your intellectual curiosity at such a tender age... like a dick makes you an expert on life and morality. Life is precious! Life begins at conception. One girl appreciated my pointing out that, in terms of respecting life beginning at conception "...for animals, it never starts cuz it's okay to treat them like shit and slaughter them for food, clothing, ivory." The men didn't even touch that one, you can't mansplain to girl nuttier than a lark.

Of course, I am a girl to a mansplainer.

Not a woman with the job and the mortgage to prove my grown-up status.

But a mainsplainer will also tell me how easy it is to move to another state if I don't like the laws where I live. 'Cuz it's that easy. You just have all the money and a new job and place to live waiting for you. Duh.

As the argument descended further into the Man Pit, I pointed out that not everyone who had an abortion regrets the decision. The chief Mansplainer felt the need to point out that, having been in the situation where he and a girlfriend chose abortion, he regrets the decision and that all of us would understand when we were older. My exact response: "Not everyone who has an abortion regrets it. Of course it's a difficult, painful choice, but I don't think it's fair to act like someone can't understand a decision due to age."

" it's not fair, its true. It's called experience. You'll understand in a decade or two. Until then..."

That's actually what he said, like some sort of weird father to teenager convo after Junior got in a fight with his basketball coach.

Whenever we disagreed on something, my ex would say, "Maybe you'll understand when you're older."

Flashbacks + mansplaining. Brains seeping from ears...

I pointed out my ripe old age of 35 and dropped a classic line, "Somedays you could rob me and all you'd get is experience."

Oh, but our mansplainer had the answer for that as well: "And now at the wise old age of 35 your views are set. Great. Might I suggest a quick read, "Heaven is For Real" you might enjoy the part where the main character meets his previously unbeknownst unborn sister in heaven. Then tell me how aborting unborn children is just dandy. It could be good experience, if you dare."

For fucks' sake. You, sir, are about four years older than I, oh right, the dick gives you wisdom unbeknownst to someone of the lesser sex, like myself. And apparently, you having your views locked and loaded is just fine because you read a book about a near-death experience that fits into your religious and political views.

Be a Christian. Cool. Don't be a mansplainer.

We ended up making nice after I asked what my double dare was and decided 25 push-ups was easier than downloading the book. I really did the push-ups. Ask the Bitches. I keep my word.

Rants need happytime endings. Old school cuddling Bitches. Peace.

Party of Five?

I just read a mother's blog about finding her daughter's diet plan on the floor of her bedroom. I should say "Diyet," pooshups," and "appals" plan. She's seven. Seven years old and worried about having a diet plan because her seven year old friend was on a diet. Seven. I think I have underwear older than that kid and she's worried about a diet.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about healthy living and I'm glad she wanted to eat apples, but a seven year old has no business worrying about that. A seven year old eats what his/her parents tell her to, for better or for worse. And that child's activity level also probably depends a lot on the example of the parent.

Parenting. I guess I shouldn't really even be allowed to have an opinion since I don't have any children. Nobody would disagree with my stance on manners, but when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, what the hell do I really know? I make a point to thank the parents of the good children I come across. My mother taught me that hearing a compliment about your child is the absolute best feeling in the entire world. The worst feeling? Knowing that your child is in pain. Any physical pain would be better than seeing your child hurt.

My parenting obsession as of late isn't just stuck in the human world. I read these awful stories about ivory poachers in Africa killing pregnant elephants and babies. I read about animals in factory farms being separated from their babies. I know I took my girls from their mothers, but hopefully I am a decent pack leader and they are living happy lives. At least they didn't end up in some Chinese fur factory--do not search that PETA video unless you want to cry and have nightmares.

You're probably thinking, "Her clock is ticking. She wants to have a baby." Does she wanna be a Kate Middleton preggers or a Kim Kardashian preggers? She's getting old, she might want to freeze some eggs, if there's any left...

Truth? I don't know. I would have answered that in the negative without thought until recently. Maybe by the time I actually decide my eggs will be decimated and Man Friend's swimmers doing the backstroke. I don't know.

What a gamble it is... it's not like there is ever a right time. It's not like anyone is ever promised a tomorrow. So how does anyone ever wrap their minds and eggs around the idea of gestation? You can look at the TV or the Facebook for about 13.5 seconds and find some evidence of an unplanned pregnancy. Not getting pregnant never seemed very hard.

So then if you get pregnant, how do you try to not raise the next entitled brat or Adam Lanza? And that isn't some commentary about the good old days. The world has always been fucking crazy. We certainly don't need more people to prove that.

I got the Bitches fixed as soon as they were old enough. Technically, they are "altered females," although I certainly wouldn't call a post-hysterectomy human gal an altered female. Point being, there are so many babies who need homes, I didn't want to add to the problem, although I know Alli would have been a good mom. I always thought the same rang true with human babies, like I should adopt a child if I really want to be a parent. I just don't know.

Incan Jesus...

These internets get me in trouble sometimes. You know how humor doesn't always translate through technology? I forget that, probably due to the fact that my inflated self-esteem tells me I'm quite funny. And though I do enjoy a good fart joke, I try to make smart jokes. Like if I ever had the chance to make say, Stephen Colbert, laugh, I would be ecstatic.

But then I forget that some people take some things, like oh, religion, really seriously.

Like literally seriously.

Personally, I think God, Allah, Bhudda, the oak tree in your yard, however you choose to express your faith or non-faith, is cool. That's not the point of this. My point is that any sort of divine creator or spiritual force has a sense of humor. Look around you. It has to have a sense of humor. So by extension, the Bible can be funny.

I might not be making any friends here.

Seriously, though, I'm no expert on the Bible, but I can't take it literally. I think there are lots of great stories and ideas that can point you in the direction of how you want to live. To me, Noah putting two zebras in an ark isn't the point. I don't need to know that's true. That's a story about strength and faith, even when everyone thinks you are crazy.

Since I hold this view, I don't get too caught up in trying to prove or disprove the factuality of the Bible. So an innocent little post of my friend, Raising Cain (RC), ended up making me look silly and defensive. Although I still think I was funny... even if I had to explain the joke...

Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Legally Blond, LB, does know me, and my sense of humor. I should point out that she was very surprised to learn that Charles Dickens did not write Sweeney Todd.


RC
Thursday near Small SoDak town via mobile
So according to the Bible Jesus and Moses fasted for 40 days....
Like · · Share

Innocent Dude I Don't Know It's doable.
Thursday at 6:31pm via mobile · Like

RC Well I have seen people passing that have gone as long as 3 weeks but 40 days!!!
Thursday at 6:34pm via mobile · Like

RC Was a day then equal to a day now?
Thursday at 6:35pm via mobile · Unlike · 1

Innocent Dude I Don't Know I've done 40 days, but typically use juice for a bit of vitamin intake.
Thursday at 6:35pm · Like

RC That'll bring you closer to God in more than one way
Thursday at 6:40pm via mobile · Like

Innocent Dude I Don't Know Indeed, it could!
Thursday at 6:41pm · Like

LB RC, they were in steadfast prayer throughout the entire time. Its about obedience. Showing God they are able to listen if He called them to do such a thing. Yes, the ultimate goal brings your relationship closer to the Lord. The constant prayer is what brings them closer to having a better relationship with Him. He's a relational God and within that growing relationship He will open your own eyes even to what He knows you can do and a chance to see what He can do for you too.
Thursday at 11:07pm · Like

Me Noah also lived to be like 900... The funniest part of this post is that it looks like Bible Jesus and Moses were fasting together. And I'm like, I'm no Biblical scholar, but my home boy Mo was splittin' seas way back in the OT, a hella long time before Jesus hit the scene. And again, how was time measured? And is "Bible Jesus" a way to differentiate from Mexi Jesus?
Friday at 12:27am · Like · 1

LB http://www.biblestudy.org/basicart/why-did-man-live-longer-before-flood-of-noah-than-after-it.html

Why did man live longer BEFORE the Flood?
www.biblestudy.org
Why did man live longer BEFORE the Flood? Are the long lives a MYTH? What factors led to man living more than 500 years?
Friday at 9:20am via mobile · Like · 1

LB (my name)
Friday at 9:20am via mobile · Like · 1

LB (my name again) they didn't fast together. different times. haha. also, check out bibleclocks.org. that might kinda help. Lastly, Jesus was BORN Jewish. I'm glad and thankful for Who and what I believe. If I'm wrong..then I'm wrong. But if I'm right...then I sure wouldn't want to be that person that had the OPPORTUNITY to know and chose otherwise. Anyway,I love you, girls and think abt you often!
Friday at 9:36am · Like

Me I understand the difference between OT and NT. I know that Jesus was Jewish. I know that Jews do not believe in Jesus as the Messiah. I'm aware that the OT is the important part to the Jews and the NT is the important part to the Evangelicals unless they want to hate on gays or women. I know that Moses is probably the most important prophet to the Jews, but he is also important to Christians and Muslims. I am aware that Mexico was not an organized country during the time of which we are speaking. I was just being silly. My comments about "Bible Jesus and Moses" fasting together was just a play on the grammar. I went to church, sunday school, and youth group for years. I was just having a little fun with the post cuz RC and I like to have a little fun.
Friday at 10:13am · Like

Me Nothing personal, girl, just don't want you to think I'm uninformed. We just believe differently! Hope you are well, LB!
Friday at 10:14am · Like

Me My comments were, not was... subject-verb agreement. Slap my wrist.
Friday at 10:15am · Like

LB Oh Gotchya! Yea everything is goin really well. We should catch up sometime..much love..
Friday at 10:28am via mobile · Unlike · 1




Funny, right? Or maybe I am just a big, bully jerkface? Now I just want to go to YouTube and watch Sweeney Todd clips. That Patti LuPone is something else. But there must be a moral to this story... did we learn anything?

I am certain there were no Incans named Jesus.

Blame Game...

If you type "adam" into your Google search, your first four choices are:


adam levine
adam lanza
adam sandler
adam lambert


Nearly everyone would know which titles match with which Adam--musician, comedian, television personality, movie star, murderer. I actually thought Lanza would be first on the list, considering the amount of media coverage surrounding the story and the Frontline that just aired. Levine being at the top of the list reminded me that middle school girls are still incredibly self-involved. But the second Adam, Adam Lanza, is the one I am thinking of today.


I'm not condoning his behaviors or making excuses. This was a horrible, tragic event. I don't know what can come from it. Other than the initial reaction of counting your blessings, it seems to have started a gun debate that, like almost everything political, has no right or wrong answers, and seemingly turns both sides into a bunch of cowards because everyone's made themselves so strident they've forgotten the concept of compromise can exist.


But it isn't the Facebook arguments or the memes that bother me the most, it's the need to assign blame. Blame the parents! Blame the sensory processing disorder! Blame the Asperger's! Blame the video games! Blame the schools for not getting him for help! Blame the shrinks! Blame the divorce! Blame! Blame! Blame! Well, the need to assign blame must be a by-product of our lawsuit happy society! Blame the lawyers! He wanted to top the death toll of that Norwegian guy who killed 77 people! Blame the media! Why are you reading about him? He's the bad guy! It's your fault!


Blame is an odd beast. It allows us to deflect our part in the humanity of others, to judge instead of attempt understand. We never have to consider our part in something when we shove the blame off on something else. The Newtown case is just a big, fat, glaring example of something we do everyday. Assigning responsibility for faults, no matter how large or minute, or judging and categorizing people are more the American pastime than baseball. This allows us to feel superior over others, but it really just makes us pawns in a game.


I'm trying to achieve a higher level of thinking when it comes to others, instead of blaming and judgment, I'm making an effort to experience the perceived fault as my own. Like it or not, many times the words or actions of others that we allow to affect us most negatively actually trip something about ourselves on which we need to work. Like I spoke about last time, this is all part of my journey of understanding.

And yes, I have blamed the dogs for farts. I'm a work in progress.

When considering all the destruction in the world, there is none more tragic than the self-imposed. - Me

It is 3:30 in the morning and I am feeling guilty. I am warm, safe, and have a bitch on each hip. I had a good day at work. I made a pink and purple Barbie guitar cake for my buddy's daughter. I have a loving family and many friends who care for me. I have more blessings in this moment than I can share. But I am haunted.

I must talk of my blessings because that's the only way to really understand my story. I am a have. I have never had to go without. While I have been through some incredibly difficult times, I know that a big reason I no longer live as a victim is due to the support and stability of the circle around me. It's easy to act like I did it on my own, but that would just be an act. My longing to be authentic was greater than my act.

There is a streak of independence and individualism running through me. Some of it is innate and some has mellowed over the years.

My guilt?

My lack of understanding.

It's so conflicting, really. I believe wholeheartedly that we need to use positive thinking and visualization to create opportunities in our lives. I believe we get back what we put out. It's been said thousands of ways over the history of humanity, so it's not surprising that this concept is at belief status for me. And I have seen it work in my life--my Anne Frank quality. The ability to see the positive in a shitty situation. So I just assumed that anyone could put this to practice in his/her life.

My assumption failed because I forget that not everyone is blessed with a healthy mind. Maybe I am just getting to the age where The long-term mental health issues are really starring to ravage some of my friends. And I can instantly think of three friends with whom their mental health issues are also coupled with substance abuse issues. Thankfully, some of them are getting the help they need right now.

I remember the night I woke up in my bathtub, covered in puke and wishing I had choked on the vomit and died. I hadn't thought about that moment in a while. I was so sad and scared. But I like have said many times, any negative emotion is rooted in hurt. I was just a big pile of hurt, acting out self-destructively because I knew no other way. I asked the ceiling for some type of help and a wave of calm passed through me and said to just go to bed. When I woke a few hours later, I knew something had to change.

Several tries later, something started to stick. Maybe mostly because I wanted it to and my stubborn ass didn't want to be a slave to anything anymore.

It's a humbling process. It's a work in progress. And that's okay. A few years ago, I asked the Universe to teach me patience. I still regret that one sometimes, but I also feel like it's starting to stick.

My next lesson is to ask for understanding. And I think my three friends were the messengers sent to plant that request. I'm learning that recognizing and stopping self-destruction is far more difficult for someone who struggles with a mental illness. Acknowledging this is helping ease my mind.

It's late. I have stopped making sense and Alli wants to cuddle.

Homo Says What...

I ran in one of those really fun small town road races last weekend. I grew up in a small town and spent a lot of time wanting to be anywhere else. That was probably just a symptom of youth since the city in which I currently live isn't huge, but that's beyond the point. The point here was the race. It was a hoot. There was even a chili feed at the golf course afterwards.

I hadn't even heard about this race until a couple of weeks ago, when my friend, Formerly Known by Three Initials (FKTI), was in for lunch and mentioned she was running it with my friend, Currently Known by Three Initials (CKTI). Both of these ladies are serious runners. They talk about things like speed work. I admire that, really, I do. I think I should learn to be more like them, so I would get better times. But if I'm being honest with myself, I must admit that I have way more fun with the bitches, dodging geese and carrying bags of dog shit.

So anyway, I was intrigued enough by the thought of the Initial Girls and road race in February to sign up. The day I signed up was one of those weirdo gloriously warm days in which the sun shines and ice melts. Then the Alberta Clippers moved through and we went into a sub-zero deep freeze the week of the race. Schools were called off due to wind chill temps over -30 and below.

I was scarrrred.

I knew I would show up and suffer through it no matter what. I also know that wool socks and tights only do so much.

Thankfully, it was 16 degrees when I pulled into town the morning of the race and the wind wasn't too bad at all. I pounded a Red Bull on my way down and was jamming out to some Otis Redding, so I drove a bit faster than I should have and had plenty of time to spare before the race. This also gave me plenty of time to observe one of my favorite aspects of small town life, the Less Than A Degree of Separation aspect. Everybody knows everybody knows everybody. It's a comforting thing, really. Lots of hi and how are you-types of greetings. Talk about the last basketball game. It's pretty superficial. Nothing controversial, after all, this was a fundraiser for the school's booster club.

It was a four mile race, so we loaded up onto school buses to be driven out of town--no quitting if you gotta run back to town. So the Initial Girls and I piled on to the first bus. People were scattered all over, with an open seat here and there. We just went straight to the back of the bus and I plopped down in the single seat by the emergency door while they sat kitty corner from me.

Suddenly, a pack of dudes in matching red t-shirts were marching down the isle towards us. The stance and attire of the group screamed of a frat stereotype, but I try to be open-minded. I try.

They get to the back of the bus and the nice guy in the seat across from me scooted towards the window and said, "You can sit here, man."

He replied, "I'm WAY too homophobic for that," with a machine gun laugh.

"I'm not, so if any ladies wanna sit on my lap, get here," was out of my mouth, loudly, before I even realized what I said.

Sometimes, I'm okay with my lack of censor.

More Spark and Less Snark...

People are always leaving random reading materials behind at work. A stray newspaper here and there is always a good find for me. And then there’s all the little free advertising rags that get glanced at and tossed with a frequency that makes the forests weep. The other day I came across a devotional book of sorts. I shouldn’t really call it a book. It was more of a mass-produced magazine that a church must be able to order and then add their information in the front. It wasn’t anything super glossy. It wasn’t full of pictures. Since I’m the type of person who reads everything from toothpaste packaging to magazines, I had to take a look. The very first thing I landed on was intriguing, to say the least.

It was a commentary on love.

The basis was First Corinthians 13:7, from a translation called “The New Living Translation,” which said, “Love believes all things. Hopes all things. Endures all things.”

The cynic may say that sounds like a chump or a doormat. The romantic might grab the lofty wings of those words and pledge his eternally to his beloved.

I’m one of those people who believe that love is something you define personally. Love isn’t just the romantic-type of love that you think of initially. I’m sure cards and flowers can be fun from time to time, but any sort of gift or trinket is really pretty superficial if there isn’t any action behind it.

I love myself in the sense that I want to take care of my body and mind so that I am healthy and enjoy life. And the bitches taught me that I am capable of loving another creature more than I love myself. When I thought I was going to have to re-home one of them, my heart literally ached.

We’ve all felt that ache of heartbreak. Not the “We lost the big game” kind, but the “I gave him my heart and he crushed my soul” type, usually with a first love or in many cases with one that was never right to begin with or was immature. We’ve all heard the adage, “True love doesn’t have a happy ending because true love has no ending at all.”

Sure, we could get hung up on the idea that a true love is a one-on-one human connection. And maybe it is for some. But let’s push past that concept and look at true love as a manifestation of who you are. We need to enter every day with a genuine, real, and honest love for everyone with whom we come into contact, especially the ones who irritate us. Every living creature you meet, human or otherwise, gives you a chance to express love.

I’m going for more spark and less snark.