Stim meets Heisenberg

Isn't it great how sometimes things just converge?

Like, it turns out that stress balls and fidget spinners and stuff are really healthy for some people, including me.

And like, I just finished watching Breaking Bad. OMG!! It was so good!!

Combine those and what do you get?

Yo bitch. You get this.

Old Lady, New Diagnosis?

I don’t even remember how it started, but somehow the answer finally came to me: Autism. I must be autistic. My social awkwardness, my inability to sail through the simplest tasks, my ineptness at mom-stuff. If I’m autistic I can stop feeling so incompetent and guilty, right? Right?

So, like any good addict, I started researching autism and learning about it and then obsessing about it. Wait a minute -- that sounds like addiction and autism.

Of course, when you're 62, people don't take you very seriously if you come up with something goofy like this. But I persisted and found a doctor in Rochester who specializes in treating adults and teens on the spectrum. (Thank you, Caroline Magyar, Ph.D.)

The process was intense. I admitted things I've never told anyone. I did my very, very best to be honest, even though I knew it would doom me to a diagnosis of garden-variety alcoholic fuck-up. 

After three sessions, I got my diagnosis. Sure enough, there is nothing wrong with me. I am perfectly normal. And I am autistic.

Wow.

I’ve spent most of my life exhausted and trying to figure out why. I’ve been formally assessed for vitamin deficiencies, chronic fatigue syndrome, cardiac disease, sleep apnea (twice!), hypothyroidism, and more. I even went on disability for a couple months. I thought it was a nervous breakdown. Turns out I just have a different operating system.

In my search for answers I've gotten some really valuable information. I was diagnosed with depression and, thankfully, the meds have taken the edge off of that. And I got clean and sober. And I got treated for an eating disorder. All very, very important, and life saving. 

But none of it has fixed the exhaustion. None of it has made it easier to get up in the morning and navigate a normal day: Calling the electric company about a bill. Refilling a prescription. Taking a shower. 

There’s an analogy I saw on a VidCon neurodiversity panel that really resonates for me: Autistics experience double the Earth's gravity. So where other people walk, I slog. The mechanics get easier the more I do a thing, but doing it is still hard. 

The worst part is the shame. I've spent most of my life believing I'm just too lazy to try harder. Through working the steps and through therapy I’ve learned to ignore that voice most of the time. But when I let myself listen, it's still very much there. I still believe deep down that I am a waste of energy and space. A failure-in-hiding. A liability, all in all.

But maybe... 

Maybe I have been doing the best I could all along. I mean, it always felt like I was doing my best in the moment, but intellectually it didn’t compute.

It turns out doing life in double-gravity feels hard because it is hard.

But it’s not doing life that has worn me down so completely. It's beating myself up so relentlessly for fifty years because I thought I should be able to do it better.  That, and the constant effort to hide the struggle from you. (If you ask me to help with dinner, there’s no way I’m going to admit to you that I don’t know how to slice the tomatoes.)

That’s why I’m always exhausted. 

So where does that leave me? Relieved! So relieved! Sad, for being so hard on myself. Still very much aware of the effect my actions have had on others, so, still guilty.

I wish someone else would take over for just a little while. Walk me through the should-be-easy stuff I already know, and help me decide what more I'm ready to learn. Point me toward the path to self-forgiveness. Or maybe just nurture me. You know, just for a few days so I can catch my breath and power down that malicious voice inside. 

But of course, that someone is going to have to be me. And it’s going to take a lot more than a few days. 

Meanwhile, it turns out there’s a whole big world of neurodiversity to explore, a robust culture similar to the Deaf and LGBTQ+ communities, one with it's own vocabulary and political etiquette and activists and even villains. 

So next time you ask me to cut up some tomatoes, I won’t pretend I know what you’re talking about. I’ll ask you. What shape? How big? How thick? How many? And what do you want me to do about that place where the stem used to be? Because, you know, some people throw it out, and some people don’t, and I don't want to screw it up. 

Yeah. Like that. I think it's gonna be good.

The Aftereffect

It was my dream job. I used to say that if I had done everything right all my life, I would have been incredibly lucky to get that job. But I've screwed up plenty, and somehow, still, I got that job.

Oh, god, it was my dream job, and every morning I got to take Route 66 to work and smile at the Sangre de Cristo mountains in front of me. Real mountains, with aspens green in the summer and yellow in the fall. Aspens with wizened white bark and round leaves whirling in the wind like spinning gold coins.

It was idyllic, really. I was home, settled in New Mexico forever, with my cute little Stamm house just a block from dozens of meetings a week, and close friends, and a full pension waiting for me just five years down the road. It was my best life writ large. And always when I was asked if I liked my job I would smile wide and say, "I LOVE my job!"

It was idyllic. Until it wasn't.

The mountains never lost their allure, and the golden leaves continued to spin. I still loved my little house and the people and the meetings. But I didn't love my job. Not anymore.

A change in management can do that. A change in management can also make bad jobs go away, sometimes at the most inconvenient times.

And that, dear reader, is how I came to pack up my car and leave behind the aspens and mountains to take an academic job across the country. Me, plus two chihuahuas and a cat, surrendering to upstate New York and the icy, unforgiving reality of lake effect snow.

How my heart aches for the mountains and the meetings and the people, and also for the simplicity of having a yard for the dogs and a life on the first floor.

I'm not crazy about the weather here, or the meetings. Hope of a pension is gone. My credit score has tanked. And I'm completely mystified by academia's relentless obsession with proper citation formatting.

But even here, in this time, in this strange place by the lake, there is bliss. Bliss in living behind the movie theater and smelling popcorn when I walk the dogs. Bliss at a lively downtown just two blocks away, complete with good food, good people, and three tattoo parlors. Bliss in the steady roar of the surf crashing onto the shore, and in the delicate curve of a wave just before it breaks. Bliss at the serenity of an empty laundromat before the sun rises. Bliss in knowing I can stay sober here, even if it's not according to plan.

And then there's the bliss of academic librarianship. The wonderful release from the airless, windowless chamber that was the law. I honestly didn't realize I was suffocating until, suddenly, I could breathe again. Here curiosity is nurtured and pondering is encouraged. Here are books with pictures, and we don't even have to sneak them in.

The bliss of being able to say, once more, that I love my job.

On horrible people.

Yeah. That.

Let's see if I can do this without getting myself into trouble. Don't worry! This'll be fun! First of all, if you're reading this -- and you know who you are! -- this isn't about you. Not even a little bit. There have only been two horrible people in my life, and you're not one of them.... So anyway, there’s this horrible person. Which, again, it’s not you, okay? And this person did this thing that was really pretty rotten. Shitty, in fact. About as shitty as what my other horrible person did (and they blocked me from Facebook?).  And behind my back, too, which makes it even shittier. 

Huh.

Gratitude, uncensored.

People tell me they enjoy the semi-daily gratitude lists I post on Facebook, and their appreciation warms my heart, it truly does ... 

Sigh ... 

Here's the uncomely truth about my gratitude postings.

I am grateful to be sober today.

I'm grateful I survived that shitshow of a meeting.   I'm grateful I don't have to see that asshole again for a week  I'm grateful I met the challenge and now the meeting is behind me.

Great. Just great. I stepped in dog pee first thing this morning and right this minute  I'm not so grateful for my two little dogs.  

I'm grateful that I got to the litter pan first for a change before Hetty could eat the cat poop. 

Do I really have to wake up every morning with cat hair in my mouth?  I'm grateful for my lovely cat with the fabulous fur.

I'm grateful for a good meeting today even if the topic was gratitude. 

I'm grateful for my wonderful, beautiful, talented, compassionate kid. 

I'm grateful I'm becoming willing to meditate.,if you count listening to NPR while I play mahjong on my phone. 

I'm grateful that I blogged today but I know it'll be six months before I post again, and oh god, I'm 60 and I've accomplished absolutely nothing -- nothing! --  and now I'm never going to finish a single novel or play in my lifetime because I can't even finish that stupid-ass poem and besides, like an idiot I went and lost the document, which just proves I'm a completely, utterly worthless excuse for a human being and I have a hell of a lot of nerve taking up space on the planet which explains why I'll probably never, ever get laid again..

I really am grateful. But sometimes I gotta work it through.

Near Abilene

Somewhere in Texas, sitting in a parking lot with the engine running. I really don't want to go in. Too few cars in the parking lot to slip in unnoticed.

It's a typical recovery clubhouse. There's no smoking anymore, but the walls are still stained with nicotine from alcoholics long dead. A bunch of beat-up six-foot folding tables are arranged to make a square in the middle of the large room. The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions hang on the wall, and in the front of the room is an enormous hand-made cedar podium rigged with a microphone for big Saturday night meetings. 

I pour myself a cup of coffee, and add enough creamer to mask the grey-brown tint. It looks disgusting, but it tastes okay. I take a seat at the table. There are only about ten people in the room, all of them quiet.

Whap! Without looking up from his newspaper, the old guy on my right slams down a flyswatter. I count seven plastic fly swatters evenly spaced around the table. Huh.  I think about leaving, but the chairman asks me to read the preamble so I stay. I remind myself that I'm not here for the ambiance, or the coffee. But damn.

It's like that, you know. Some meetings are weird. In my city, I have the luxury of a pristine club with gourmet coffee, and still, once in a while, even the best meetings turn strange.  

The chairman gets started with the readings and then calls for shares. The first speaker is a girl just coming back from a relapse. She's a mess, and she's crying. It's a good sign: there is power in those tears of desperation.

The second speaker is a middle-aged woman celebrating ten years of sobriety and she, too, is sobbing. Two beloved sons lost to accidents just in the past five months, and somehow she is sober.  

This. This is why I'm here, these two women. The young girl reminds me how miserable it would be to get sober again. The older woman reminds me that nothing, but nothing, is ever bad enough to make me drink or use.

Resigned but grateful, I grab a flyswatter, sip my grey coffee, and listen.

An inconsequential blurb.

It's a librarian's wet dream: an unending supply of young adult literature for free. Dozens and dozens of books arriving on my doorstep because I'm on a book-selection committee. Nearly every day there's a box waiting for me when I come home.

But that's for another post. This is about a different box that arrived about a month ago, which held
Harvard Law School's bicentennial alumni directory. I ordered it about a year ago for a slightly outrageous price. Because, well, vanity.

As I looked into the box, though, I felt a wisp of doubt: would I be in there? I was in no hurry to find out I wasn't, so I put the package aside.

Two weeks later, I finally pulled that hefty volume from its box and braced myself for disappointment.

And there it was, in the alphabetical section: my name, in bold letters, followed by "J.D. 1989."

I read it three times. Then I looked in the chronological section, and there I was again! I returned to the alphabetical section to see if it had changed.  And then I took a picture of it. Why was I obsessing over this silly little blurb? 

Because it was there. Because I was there!

I spent three years swimming semiconsciously in a muddy moat of gratitude, sleeplessness, and stark terror. So what if admissions had accidentally sent me an acceptance letter? I pushed forward anyway. Then they accidentally made me a teaching assistant with a little office in Austin Hall, and after that I became the managing editor for the environmental law review. A job which, by the way, I completely mangled. I graduated on time, a respectably average Harvard Law student. I took the bar and passed. I was even a lawyer for a while. Like, with a license and everything!

My God, I was really there. I slogged through snow in Cambridge and rode two trains and a bus to get home to Chelsea. I pushed my way through the masses in Faneuil Hall. I rode the Green Line to the Museum of Fine Arts. I went to Passim on Sunday afternoons, and I shopped at the Coop. I ate fried clams on Revere Beach, and I smelled the sweetly pungent garbage as I ran down the stairs to catch the T in Harvard Square.

I did all that. I was there.

Jesus Christ. 

If someone asks me a direct question -- where did you go to law school? -- I answer honestly. But I rarely volunteer the information. Yes, it's on my resume because it's true and it's useful. Only, it's not me I'm describing.

I thought I'd been hiding it out of false humility. But I was really hiding it out of fear: fear that people would expect me to be smart. Fear that talking about it would make me an elitist asshole. Fear that people wouldn't believe me.

Fear, deep down, that I never actually went to Harvard.

But there's my name, in that book. 

So, what would happen if I were to let myself believe it? What would happen if I were to embrace it, to feel its warm breeze on my face, to let it soak into my soul?  Would I survive?

Maybe it's time to find out.

It's like this...

I'm weird. I'm just weird. I'm full of things that don't quite fit together.

You know those cheap flat square puzzles with the little tiles you have to slide around until you get them all in order, and sometimes there's oily stuff underneath the tiles? Well, my tiles keep popping out. They're popping out all over the place.

I'm writing this after a long hiatus from writing much of anything and as you can see, I'm not going for quality here. But I feel like I'm finally taking a big, healthy, happy crap after being constipated for a year.

Yeah. It feels that good.

See? Weird.

About a Promise

Promises can be hard.

***

Summer in Phoenix. I'm 13. The zoo has a summer day-camp program and I'm nuts about animals so my mom signs me up. 

On this particular day, my big brother is supposed to pick me up after camp, and he's a little late. I feel silly standing around by the entrance, so I leave and walk down the road a bit to kill time. Once you leave the zoo entrance area, it feels like the middle of nowhere. 

As I'm walking, a white sedan approaches me from behind. The guy is young, maybe in his early 20s. He rolls down the window and says hi. I return the greeting.

"Do you need a ride?" he asks.

"No, my brother is coming to pick me up."

"Well, I could take you home. I'd be glad to. It's really hot out here."

"That's okay. I'll wait."

"Are you sure? I'll bring you right back." 

Something is definitely not right. "No, thanks." 

The guy just drives off, which makes me one lucky girl, I turn around and head back to the entrance where it's safer.

When my brother arrives, I tell him what happened. All the way home, every time he sees a white car, he asks me, "Is that him? Is that him?" Of course, it never is. But my big brother has my back, and it feels really good. We get home and my mom calls the police.

***

I'm 10 years old. The parents have gone shopping, and my brother and I are standing in the kitchen. He grabs a bottle of Coke from the refrigerator, and he shakes it up. When he takes off the cap, it explodes like a champagne bottle. Brown spray goes all over the white ceiling. I laugh. 

My brother seizes a sharp knife, grabs me from behind, and holds the knife to my throat.  I'm not entirely sure he won't use it, and a weird, calm sense of acceptance sweeps over me. I apologize, and he lets me go.

***

My second year of law school. A law firm in San Francisco has brought me out for an interview. My brother and his wife and daughter live in San Jose, so of course I want to visit them. 

At that point, I still don't know I'm a lesbian. Or maybe I do, because I show up at my brother's house with short hair and a flannel shirt. He says I look too butch, and I'm both mildly insulted and slightly pleased. 

So, my brother and his wife and I go for a drive to see a little bit of San Francisco. We get kind of lost, and find ourselves on a quiet non-residential street in the city. No traffic, and hardly anyone around. The businesses are all closed. 

Up ahead, a woman is walking down the street. She's slim and tall and attractive, and her hair is cropped very short. She's sporting a leather vest and jeans. 

My brother slows down as he approaches her. I figure he's going to ask for directions.

Instead, my brother rolls down his window and spits at her.

I'm stunned. I'm - well, there's not even a word for what I am. I know I have to say something, I must say something, but in my shock my brain has pretty much left the building. I fumble unsuccessfully for words, and then yell, "Hey! Live and let live!" It's lame, and I know it's lame.

There is no further discussion. My brother rolls up his window and we drive on.

***

My father has just died, and as it happens, he has specifically excluded me from his will. My brother, who is the executor, insists on giving me a sizeable chunk of money that he could have kept for himself. It's why I have a car. My brother really does have my back.

*** 

The promise: 

My mother is in the hospital, semi-conscious and near death. She's restless, and I can't figure out why. I can't calm her down. Suddenly a thought occurs to me. She was always really close to her sister. 

"Are you worried that your kids will lose touch with each other once you're gone? We won't. We'll stay close, I promise." 

Immediately, my mom calms down, and she soon falls asleep. She dies a couple days later.

***

I'm having trouble keeping my promise.

Trigger warning.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

It's the texture. The taste. And a buzz, which I've never managed to define.

My favorite eatery serves enormous slices of chocolate cake, easily five servings for anyone else. Sometimes I can get it all down in one sitting. Today, it takes a couple hours. The more I eat, and the more that rich sludge goes down, the more I disappear into the blessed fog. I retreat past the cake, into two cream-filled donuts, and then into a double-scoop of premium ice cream. Before long, I'm feeling sick. Maybe protein will help, so I run out for a quarter pounder and fries. Because, you know, balance. Later, a large pepperoni pizza. I only plan to eat two slices, but before I go to bed, only two slices remain.

In the middle of the night, I wake up choking and coughing as sewage lurches up from my stomach, searing my throat. Reflux. I down the maximum dose of antacid, which I always keep close now, and I fall back to sleep, my throat still burning. Morning will bring another binge.

Fifteen pounds ago, I could still walk. Now I lumber, and I start wheezing in less than a block. People notice, and they comment sympathetically.

Every outing, even to the grocery store, requires multiple calculations: how far can I walk? Is it uphill or downhill? Will there be a place to rest along the way? When I get where I'm going, will there be a place to sit down? Will I fit in the chair? Because sometimes, I don't. Through doorways, down rows of theater seats, in restaurant booths, on planes. Sometimes I misjudge and collide with table corners. Subsequent bruising explained. 

The larger I get, the harder I try to be invisible. In meetings, when I squeeze into chairs that are too close together, I'm aware that I am invading you. We both scoot a little, trying to create some room, but the physics of it... I apologize to you for taking up space.

I recall the words of a friend: "I heard you used to be really cute."

I have but a daily reprieve. Complacency is not an option.

Okay, I've heard enough.

Give Trump a chance, I said. Maybe he'll do a good job, I said. Well, I did. And no, he won't. Our worst fears are being realized. 

Let's put aside, for a moment, the many, many things that should have disqualified Trump from the presidency in the first place. Here is a sampling of what he's done so far as president-elect:

-- Filled his cabinet with a rancid basket of sexist, racist, homophobic, anti-environment, anti-government, xenophobic deplorables;

-- Summarily rejected FBI and CIA intelligence;

-- Continued to issue moronic, unhinged tweets, going so far as to call those who opposed his candidacy his "enemies."

-- Condemned the cast of Hamilton for exercising their First Amendment rights, while remaining silent about the hundreds of hate crimes that have taken place since the election;

-- Failed to offer any reasonable protection against business conflicts of interest; and

-- Lied, and then lied some more about illegal votes and jobs saved.

Trump has no ideology. He's crude and emotionally unstable. He doesn't care about anyone but himself. He's not even very smart -- much to Putin's delight. 

Trump is a dangerous demagogue. Is he the new Hitler? No, but then Hitler wasn't Hitler either, when he was elected. Until he was.

Trump is going to be the president of the United States, and there's nothing I can do about that. But he'll never be my president. Never. 

Consider me part of the resistance.

Thoughts on an Election

Our vision has not died, and we are STILL stronger together.

As difficult as it is (and I'm having a really tough time typing this), my decision is to accept the outcome.

Therefore, I pray for our nation and for our president-elect, just as my parents taught me to do. And while I have no respect for Donald Trump the man, I offer him the respect for his presidency that was never afforded President Obama. And who knows, maybe he'll even do a good job. I am now obligated to give him that chance.

At the same time, I believe one of my highest duties as American citizen is to fight against forces that would undermine our Constitution and fundamental American ideals. I believe the United States is in danger from such forces. 

By electing Donald Trump, and by maintaining a Republican House and Senate, the American people have put us on notice that we -- Muslims, Jews, women, people of color, immigrants, and the LGBTQ community, among others -- can now be discriminated against with impunity. We have been put on notice that we are second-class citizens. We are now to settle for a marginal role in the American journey.

Whatever else I must accept about the 2016 election, I have no intention of accepting that.

So, while I have made the decision to move forward with faith and optimism, I must also increase my vigilance. I must embrace sacrifice and action. I must fight not only for myself, but for others now further marginalized. In short, I must fight for my country.

Together, today, we move forward as Americans.

"How about a little hug for the Bushy?"

Oh, where to begin? The Access Hollywood tape, the pre-debate exploitation of Bill Clinton's victims, and the second debate itself. The mind reels! It's become a feeding frenzy, and pundits on both sides are imploring all of us to get back to the real issues.

But I'm going to take one more look anyway. 

From the debate:

COOPER: ... We received a lot of questions online, Mr. Trump, about the tape that was released on Friday, as you can imagine. You called what you said locker room banter. You described kissing women without consent, grabbing their genitals. That is sexual assault. You bragged that you have sexually assaulted women. Do you understand that?

TRUMP: No, I didn’t say that at all. I don’t think you understood what was — this was locker room talk. I’m not proud of it. I apologize to my family. I apologize to the American people. Certainly I’m not proud of it. But this is locker room talk.

Wait -- what? "No, I didn't say that at all. I don't think you understood ,,,"

Now, Trump is not denying that he said the words. Indeed, he freely admits it. No, it's worse than that. When he mansplains the concept of "locker room talk" to Anderson Cooper, what he's really saying is this: "No. What I described on that tape isn't sexual assault."

Of course, he's wrong, but here's the thing. Let's assume for a moment that it was just talk (not that Trump deserves that concession). Let's see what happens when Trump and Bush get off the bus.

TRUMP: Hello. How are you? Hi.
ARIANNE ZUCKER: Hi Mr. Trump. How are you? Pleasure to meet you.
TRUMP: Nice seeing you. Terrific, terrific. You know Billy Bush?
BUSH: Hello, nice to see you. How are you doing, Arianne?
ZUCKER: I’m doing very well, thank you. [To Trump] Are you ready to be a soap star?
TRUMP: We’re ready, let’s go. Make me a soap star.
BUSH: How about a little hug for the Donald? He just got off the bus.
ZUCKER: Would you like a little hug, darling?
TRUMP: Okay, absolutely. Melania said this was okay.
BUSH: How about a little hug for the Bushy? I just got off the bus. There we go. Excellent. Well, you’ve got a nice co-star here.
ZUCKER:  Yes. Absolutely.
TRUMP: Good. After you. Come on, Billy. Don’t be shy.

Billy Bush, whom we've just heard giggling uncontrollably at Trump's "banter," becomes the aggressor. Having learned from Trump how real men act, but without the confidence of the Donald, Bush first offers the young actress to Trump for a hug and then, in one of the creepiest lines in the whole tape, takes her for himself. Yes, he asks permission, but I doubt she felt free to refuse.

No, it isn't rape. But it is rape culture, which is deeply symbolic of gender inequality.

And gender equality, my friends, is a real issue. Those of us who have fought rape culture since the 1970s  -- hell, since the beginning of time -- have no intention of leaving it behind.

What we were like, and then some -- a Spotify playlist for Recovery September

September is recovery month, and I'm happy -- very, very happy -- to tell  you I haven't had to drink or use in 12,836 days. Crazy, huh?

But even at 35 years sober, I like a distraction from real work as much as the next addict. So this weekend, when I should have been putting up  the living room blinds and pulling weeds, I spent a shitload of time putting together a Spotify playlist called "What we were like, what happened, and what we're like now." You'll find the link below. I think it's around 60 songs, so I'll be kind of surprised if anyone actually listens to the whole thing, but what the hell. I'll listen to it, plus I get a blog post out of it. So there.

If you do decide to listen, a couple warnings:

First, it's not terribly child friendly, unless your child has a mouth like a sailor. Probably not a great idea to play it while you're hauling the neighborhood kiddies to school.

Second, TRIGGER ALERT. It starts out pretty light, but the section on "what we were like" gets progressively darker, and ends up very dark indeed -- just like the disease of addiction,  So if it starts to get to you, skip ahead to "Amazing Grace." It's pretty much uphill (in a good way) from there.

Finally, if I've accidentally included a skinhead band or something similarly awful, please tell me so I can take it out.

And now, for your consideration:

Henny Penny Snags a Big One

So anyway, Ducky Lucky was taking his morning constitutional when he ran into Henny Penny. She was dragging along a huge plastic case about twice her size. It wasn't going well.

"What on earth are you doing, Henny Penny?" asked Ducky Lucky.

Bringing home my new rotary hammer," Henny Penny gasped. "Whew! Gotta sit down."

Ducky Lucky eyed his friend carefully. "Rotary hammer. You mean like a jackhammer?"

Henny Penny was still catching her breath. "Not a jackhammer. Rotary hammer." She licked a drop of sweat from the tip of her beak.

"Lemme see," Ducky Lucky demanded.

"Okay," Henny Penny wheezed. She tried to lay the case down gently on its side, but she lost her balance and she fell with the case. Suppressing a squawk, she opened the lid. Inside was a huge, sleek, green tool that looked more like an assault weapon than any kind of hammer. If it were a person it would have been Chuck Connors as Marvin "The Claw" Zuckerman.

"Holy fuck!" said Ducky Lucky, not even trying to hide his admiration. What is a rotary hammer, anyway?"

Just then Foxy Loxy trotted up. "Whoa! Is that an assault weapon or are you just happy to see me?"

"It's a rotary hammer," Ducky Lucky said. "Cool, huh?"

"Yes, indeed, it's a real beauty all right!" gushed Foxy Loxy. "What's a rotary hammer?"

"I don't know," said Ducky Lucky. "But I'm pretty sure I want one."

Henny Penny rolled her eyes. "Don't you two know anything? It's like a drill, only on steroids. It hammers while it drills. In and out! Around and around!"

Foxy Loxy walked around the hammer, inspecting it from all sides. He narrowed his eyes. "It's kind of phallic, isn't it?"

Yeah. It's eighteen inches long and it's mine.

Foxy Loxy reached down to pick it up, but Henny Penny intercepted.  "It's mine!"

"Yours?" Foxy Loxy asked, incredulous. "Oh, come on. You can barely hang a picture."

"Well, that changes today," clucked Henny Penny, and then she grinned. "This baby can drill through cement!"

"Since when do you need to drill through cement?" asked Foxy Loxy.

"It was on sale," Henny Penny said defensively. She pulled out a Sham-Wow and began to polish it. "I've named him Diesel," she said quietly.

"Do you even know how to run that thing?" asked Ducky Lucky.

Henny Penny shifted uncomfortably. "Sure, I do," she hedged.

Ducky Lucky took Henny Penny by her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. "As I recall, you once pounded frozen hamburger crumbles in the frying pan with a hammer. Shit flew everywhere. Face it, Henny Penny. You're just not good with tools."

Henny Penny's eyes flashed. "I'll have you know I'm very mechanical!"

At this, Ducky Lucky and Foxy Loxy broke into fits of laughter. "Yeah, right! Like when you didn't replace your brakes until they actually fell off your car. Oh, and when you caused a gasoline flood at the BigGas because you forgot to turn off the nozzle. Yeah, you're real mechanical, Henny Penny. That's rich!"

As they were recovering from the joke, Owlie Jowlie walked up and eyed the rotary hammer. "Kind of phallic, isn't it?"

"Oh, shut up!" growled Henny Penny. "I'm done." She stood up and ruffled her feathers. "Let's go, Diesel. We'll find a nice piece of cement, just the two of us. We'll have a picnic." The little hen tenderly covered Diesel with the Sham-Wow and latched the cover.

"You know, you really are kind of phallic," whispered Henny Penny.  And with a mighty heave on the case, Henny Penny began the long trek home.

Epilogue: 

-- Yes, I bought this, and yes, it's huge.
-- No, I don't call it Diesel. 
-- I was so intimidated when I opened it up that it took me a month to take it out of the case, and another two weeks to turn it on. 
-- After I drilled two practice holes in the garage I had to lay down.
-- Now I can hang pictures on my cement walls.

Phyllis Schlafly is Dead.

Phyllis Schlafly died of cancer yesterday. She was most famous for her successful fight to defeat the Equal Rights Amendment. More than any single person, Phyllis Schlafly is the reason women are still not protected by the U.S. Constitution.

Schlafly was an attorney, activist, and prolific writer. She successfully formed and led right-wing extremist groups. She could not have accomplished any of this but for early feminists. On the backs of suffragettes, she did her best to destroy the women's movement. She was a rabid opponent of LGBT rights, too, despite the fact that she had a gay son.

These are just a few of her charms. You'll find plenty more in the Washington Post's obit.

Cancer is a terrible thing, and I hope Phyllis Schlafly didn't suffer. To her family, I'm sorry for their loss.

For the rest of us, however, I celebrate her passing.  The world is now a little brighter.

Meanwhile, as we're all patting ourselves on the back for being civilized...

Donald Trump is an asshole. We all know that. But this post isn't about Donald Trump. It's about hypocrisy and bigotry on the left.

I have an acquaintance on Facebook who is clearly anti-Trump (as am I). Yesterday, he posted an article about how Mike Pence says there's no place for name-calling in public life. My friend's caption: "Ironic quote of the day." Absolutely!

But less than two hours earlier, my friend had posted this gem:

 Nice, huh? In my friend's version, though, the woman's face wasn't blurred out. Can you say "public shaming"?

And the comments were just lovely, too. Here are two of my favorites:

She's HUUUUUGE! HUUUUUGE!

I didn't think being obese was something you were born to be. Its [sic] a choice to be a pig when it comes to food.

As of this writing, the post has been shared 28 times.

Think I'm missing the point?  Please. The pro-LGBT text is just a pretense to rationalize publishing the photo.

Now, I know I'm not objective, because I've got an eating disorder. I went to treatment and learned how not to binge, but as of this writing, I'm a very round, very, very uncomfortable 233 pounds with a treadmill arriving on Monday. And the reason I've got a treadmill coming is because I'm embarrassed to exercise in public. I know I shouldn't care what people think, but postings like this are hard to tune out.

So yeah, I took it personally. But that doesn't mean I'm wrong.

Donald Trump is cruel, no question. But so are the people who created, posted, and shared this piece of shit.

And honey, cruelty isn't any more acceptable just because it comes from the left.

Not everything in Santa Fe is beautiful.

Santa Fe has a past. It's a past of diversity and beauty and magic. But it's also a past of colonialism and racism. Of course, I knew that when I came here. I even knew that there was a Civil War battle nearby in Glorieta.

But here's something I didn't know: Santa Fe was the site of a Japanese internment camp from 1942 to 1946, where 4,555 men were imprisoned without due process.

Today -- two days after Veterans Day -- I visited the monument at the site, dedicated in 2002. If most of us have forgotten about this despicable piece of history, it was clear from the flowers and origami cranes left behind that the memory is still fresh for some.

I write this in the hours following the infuriating, devastating attacks in Paris. So far, it looks like it was the work of ISIS or Al Qaeda.

Fear, anger, and the desire for revenge are natural. I'm feeling all of those things right now. But I hope that, as a nation, we don't allow those feelings to translate to policy.

The plaque at the Santa Fe camp ends with the following sentence:

Indeed.

Here are some of the photos I took today.

 

Tonight, I pray for peace, wisdom, and restraint.

Lazy-Ass Librarian Tuesday: Moms Try To Guess If It’s A Dog Toy Or Sex Toy

Now I'm mad.

Someone poisoned my dog Forrest. He will probably recover, thanks to good veterinary care, a cool grand in diagnostics, and a near future of frequent blood tests and medication.

The vet said it had to be a large dose to do so much damage, so it didn't just casually blow into my patio. Somebody had to put it there. I live in a gated condo community, so whoever did this apparently belongs here. How comforting.

These are mostly rentals, and we're in the hood. So it's not terribly surprising that various annoying things have landed in my little portal since I moved in. I found the bits of trash, the tail end of a joint, and a couple of weeks ago, a very gross, very used condom. I found those.

Forrest found the rat poison.

Now, I don't know if whoever threw this shit over the fence meant to hurt Forrest in particular. And frankly, I don't care. Forrest still bled internally and went into shock. He still suffered terribly. And he's still not out of danger.

So whoever did this, I really hate the motherfucker

.