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.