My Rape Story (Because too many of us have one)

I was molested at the age of 7 by the uncle of a friend. The uncle was, at the time, living with the friend when I went for a sleep over. At some point, I found myself alone with the uncle in my friend's bedroom. He began rubbing my back. I hated it. It made me feel weird and gross. He asked if he could kiss my back. I was raised to always obey authority and adults are authority so I complied. That made me feel even grosser. He asked if he could kiss me on the lips but, even as timid of authority as I was, I couldn't bring myself to agree to that. He told me not to tell. He told me that it was our secret.

I kept the secret to myself until I returned home from the sleepover. The next morning, I told my sister as we were getting ready for church. I couldn't keep it to myself -- those feelings of shame and dirtiness. After church, at lunch, I sat at the table silently crying. My mother asked what was wrong and my sister blurted out my secret. I don't remember how my mother reacted. I know the news must have sickened her. I just remember being terrified that my abuser would somehow punish me for disobeying.

The church/school (I was at the time attending a parochial school) Christmas program was scheduled for that night. I knew that it was my mother's intention to speak to my friend's mother about the actions of her brother that night, which in turn probably meant that my friend's mother would speak to her brother, and HE was in the audience. I remember managing to keep myself together enough to perform with my classmates, but I could feel him staring at me. I just knew he was plotting his revenge.

A few days after the Christmas program, I was told that the uncle was asked to move elsewhere (to another of his siblings' homes, I believe, who did not have children to molest). I never saw him again, nor was the "situation" ever again mentioned. Something about the context of the conversation seemed to hint that this wasn't the first time this had happened and I'm sure it wasn't the last.

After this incident, my mother finally had the conversation with me about bodily autonomy and "bad touching" and formally gave me permission to say no to an adult if he (because she assumed any abuser would be a he) made me uncomfortable, and that I should tell her if anything like that ever happened again. Too little too late mom.

When I was 12, attending the same church, I had an extremely inappropriate relationship with a boy in my youth group who was 15. He was cute, popular, kind of a jock, and all the girls had crushes on him. I, on the other hand, was chubby, awkward, and unpopular. During a social gathering at the church, a half dozen or so rogue members of the youth group (including me) participated in a rather lewd game of truth or dare. (I have to wonder now how a half dozen tween-to-teens were so unsupervised AT CHURCH that this was even possible.) The dares mostly centered around the theme of show-me-yours-and-I'll-show-you-mine.

After the game, he coaxed me into a secluded room, showed me his erect penis, and told me it was hard because I was so hot. He asked me to show him my boobs, and asked if he could touch them. He asked me to give him a hand job. I'd had a crush on him forever, and of course consented. He kissed me and told me that he'd wanted me for a long time and I could be his girlfriend, but, even though he really did care for me, we had to keep it a secret. I was so excited that he liked me and so thrilled at the feeling of sexual awakening that I was about to pop, but I kept his secret. I kept his secret even while he bullied me in public "for show" he said.

Of course, it had to be kept secret because the caring about me part was utter bullshit and he was just too embarrassed, as the popular jock, to be "going with" the dumpy nerd girl, but he still wanted the sexy stuff from me. This relationship went on for several months and got as close as possible to actual having sex without ever crossing that line. He certainly wanted to, but at that time I was still committed to keeping my virginity for my husband.

I found out later from other girls in my youth group that they were also his "secret girlfriend". I kind of always dismissed his actions as a teenage boy being a teenage boy, and felt ashamed at being so foolish as to believe his ridiculous come-ons, but now I see it as the predatory behavior that it was and wonder how this behavior carried on into adulthood.

When I was 21 I was raped by a military guy. It was my first time out barhopping as a legal drinker. A friend took me out and offered to pay for the drinks. And honey were there drinks. I think I calculated that between the lemon drop shots and Cape Codders I had something like 20+ servings of vodka. I met a guy at the bar that I thought was cute. His name was Westley, with a T, like Westley from Princess Bride. He was tall and geeky and we had a nice conversation.

Meanwhile, my friend was over making nice with his buddy Mike, who I did not find remotely interesting or attractive. He was the cocky jock type, and I was so not (and still not) into that type. When my friend went to the bathroom, Mike and I had a slurred and drunken conversation about our mutual non-attraction and how we were both cool with that and could hang even though we didn't want to fuck and I thought that was pretty cool.

We closed down the bar and the boys invited us over to their place to continue the party. My friend readily agreed and we followed them back to their apartment. It was the two of us, the two of them, and two or three more of their military buddies. A bottle of tequila was being passed around and I managed one shot before passing out on the couch. One of the other guys kept trying to kiss me and I kept pushing him away. Finally Mike told me that I could go pass out in his roommate's bed as his roommate was gone on some training thing.

I don't know how long I was passed out in that bedroom before I woke to find someone leaning over me, trying to kiss me. I pushed him away, thinking he was the same guy as before, but it was Mike. I reminded him that we'd mutually agreed that we didn't want to fuck and what the fuck was his deal? He told me that he'd been "so wrong" and that he'd really been wanting me all night. Well, I didn't want him. And I made that clear!

My friend heard us arguing through the door and came to intervene, but he'd locked it when he came in and he yelled back to her that everything was just fine. So she left me there and went home! I was at the point of drunk where my mind was working but my body wasn't and he went on ahead and did what he wanted to do. I just laid there and let him. I didn't really have a choice at that point.

The next morning I called my friend and she came and picked me up and took me back to her house. I sat in her shower, as hot as I could stand it, trying to wash the ick of the night's events off of me. I felt so ashamed and dirty. I'd gotten drunk. I'd put myself in this situation. It was my fault. And I'd cheated on my boyfriend. (I was already dating Grumpy at this point but he was stationed elsewhere and I was living with my parents.)

When I got home I repeated the hot shower thing in another attempt to wash off the shame and guilt and the feeling of him touching me. I told my mother what had happened and she informed me that I had been raped and that even though she didn't approve of me drinking, being drunk didn't give him permission to have sex with me if I said no. She took me to the police station where I gave my statement. The cop there told me he didn't think I had much of a case since I was drunk and had willingly gone to his house. It would just be my word against his and I would probably be better off not pursuing, so I let it drop.

I called Grumpy and told him what had happened. He said it wasn't rape because I didn't fight back hard enough. He also confirmed my own self-accusation that I had cheated on him. (He has since admitted that he was very, very wrong about this and has apologized profusely.)

I now wish that I had pressed charges. Even if there'd been no legal consequences, there'd have been some resulting unpleasantness from his chain of command -- enough, at least, to make him think a little harder about the potential consequences of his actions. But because I let it go, he never had to face any consequences whatsoever. I'm sure I wasn't his first and I'm sure I wasn't his last. The lack of consequences for shit like this just reinforces the entitlement complexes that perpetuate rape culture.

I feel like I've moved past and healed from whatever injury or trauma occurred as a result of these events. But I feel like I have to tell these stories. My stories are only a drop in the proverbial rape culture bucket. All women, and many men, have these stories. We all need to tell them. We all need to speak up. I feel like predators, like the men in these stories, have to be called out publicly, even if the calling out does not result in legal consequences. We cannot just quietly shuffle these things off to the side and pretend they didn't happen, you know, for the best interests of all involved.

We, as humans, all have urges to do things we know are wrong. We, as a society, have both a spoken and unspoken set of rules that keeps us, as individuals, from acting out those urges. We aren't just nice and generally well behaved because deep down we know it's the right thing. We are generally polite and well behaved - in public at least - because we fear the social consequences of being rude and obnoxious. (Really, I do so miss those happy days of my youth when racist assholes knew to keep their deplorable attitudes in their own rumpus rooms.)

This epidemic of predatory behavior has to end. The justice system and our politicians aren't going to protect future generations from this bullshit. We, as a society, need to end it. We need to teach our children early that they own their bodies and NOBODY has a right to touch them without their consent. We need to let our children know that allowing someone in a position of power to manipulate them into doing things that they find humiliating and gross is NEVER okay. We need to stop the victim shaming and start supporting those -- and believing those -- who are willing to speak out. We need to make it known to those who would be predators that they will be called out, the stories will be told, and that they will face serious consequences to their social standing and career status. We need to make it crystal clear that this behavior will no longer be tolerated. Period.

Peanut Butter and Shostakovich

I'm loving my new job. The combined music libraries of the symphony, youth symphony, ballet, and opera are being reorganized and I've been brought in to help with the project. I have specifically been tasked to the youth symphony, moving sheet music from old archive boxes to new archive boxes and relabeling them. 

I am in awe of the papers that are passing through my hands -- some of them dating back to the 60's when the youth symphony was founded. (There are pieces in other parts of the library that predate the founding of the main symphony in the 1800's -- I'm hoping to get my hands on that collection at some point.) The sheets are embellished here and there with the pencil notes young musicians have made to accommodate various conductors interpretations of the pieces -- noting cues, dynamic changes, and inserted or emphasized rests. I am handling years of history, and who knows what musical careers some of the previous holders of this music have gone on to accomplish. 

Many of the pieces brought back memories for me -- Smetana's Moldau has been my favorite piece of classical music since my 4th grade class went on a field trip to a concert the state symphony put on just for elementary students. I aided in murdering the William Tell Overture that same year by the all-county elementary orchestra as a first-year viola player. (My viola career came to an abrupt halt after only two years when my mother switched me to a private school with no music program.) And so much Sound of Music. That soundtrack and that movie are woven throughout my entire life like a thread through a tapestry. 

The dearest recollection a piece evoked today was during a battle with several large boxes comprising an entire Shostakovich symphony. My hands and wrists are covered in paper cuts and I'm sporting three bandaids. (Wouldn't want to bleed on the music!) Wrestling with this symphony brought back memories of a blog entry that I wrote almost 15 years ago -- February of 2003 -- about a toddler having a tantrum and then mellowing out in a most bizarre way. In honor of Shostakovich, and my paper cuts, I present it to you now. 

My life is strange. Granted, life with children is always strange in that crazy, wild, unpredictable, loud, chaotic way that children make life strange, but my life is strange in the quiet, subdued moments -- strange like scenes from surreal foreign films with softly lit backdrops of grey, overcast skies, and soothing baroque music wafting through the air.

My obstreperous middle child was in the midst of a typical 2 year old tantrum. He was in the kitchen laying on the floor gurgling out protests. "I don`t want it!! It`s STUPID!" As nothing was being forced on the child -- or even offered to the child -- I`ve absolutely no clue as to what IT could be. I made him a sandwich and got him a glass of milk, which he flatly refused mid-gurgle, preferring instead to lay on the floor and bemoan his lot in life.

Abruptly, he changed his mind. He stood up, picked up his sandwich and sippy cup, and requested that I "hold him to bed" which is his way of asking I carry him to my room for a nap.

This is where we pick up with the soft classical music and the muted light from the overcast sky through the window. He settled himself on my bed and put his finger to his lips to signal a hush. He lay meditatively, very deliberately chewing bits of sandwich, nosily smacking his lips while conducting an imaginary symphony with his one free hand and one chubby little leg waving in the air. I laid on my side, head propped on my arm watching this miniature Shostakovich in a none-too-clean t-shirt, diaper, and stained sock (he was only wearing one) as he smeared my white cotton pillowcases with Welch`s strawberry preserves.

The moment lasted until he`d chewed and swallowed his last bite of sandwich and drained the last drops of milk from his cup. The magic was over. He has returned to his tantrum and is acting sleepy. Perhaps he will nap soon.

Yeah, My Stomach Is Screwed

This is an illustration of a procedure called Vertical Banded Gastroplasty. I had this procedure in 2004, after the birth of Andro. This procedure is no longer approved by the FDA as it has been replaced by a safer, less invasive procedure -- the adjustable lap band -- that has a much lower rate of complications. Complications such as vomiting, malnutrition, high rate of failure (meaning patients gained back the weight), acid erosion of the stomach lining and esophagus, and general inability to eat almost everything, especially healthy foods.

I've always been self conscious about my weight. I remember having to shop in the pretty-plus section throughout elementary school. But I was never like FAT fat. I don't think I ever exceeded a size 20, which, while certainly not thin, isn't absurd for 5'8". In high school I joined the cross country team, ran about 3 miles 3 or 4 times a week, and dropped all the way down to a mind-bogglingly thin size 14 and about 185 pounds. I even had some people who suggested I try for a gig as a plus-sized model, though I never pursued that. (I did do art modeling in college, but that's entirely different.)

I struggled with my weight on and off through college to my early 20's, gaining and losing the same 30 pounds over and over. I tried to eat right and exercise, but fell off the wagon now and again. When Grumpy and I were stationed in Colorado, we were constantly hiking and camping and at the age of 22 I was about a size 16 and just under 200 pounds. And I looked good. And I felt healthy.

And then pregnancy. I got pregnant for the first time at 22, but I miscarried at 11 weeks. Even though I was pretty much nauseous the entire time, I managed to pack on about 30-40 pounds that hadn't even begun to budge before I got pregnant again, a month and a half after the miscarriage. Again, extreme nausea. The term "morning sickness" was a cruel joke. I was sick 24/7 and it didn't end with the first trimester. I was sick the entire 41.5 weeks. (He was late, stubborn boy.) I was in the ER 15 times for rehydration. I once threw up 18 times in one day day (pregnancy plus food poisoning) and it took several tries to get the IV started. They eventually nailed it with a pediatric-gauge needle - the kind they use for newborns. Even with the extreme nausea though, I managed to pack on pounds.

I knew I didn't want to go through that again anytime soon, and I knew I wasn't good at being consistent about things like taking pills, so I got the depo shot, which was supposed to last 3 months. It lasted a year and I just ballooned further, despite a healthy diet and a physically active lifestyle. Now, mind this was before the age of Google so I couldn't really research the side effects before I had the shot. It wasn't until after I'd gotten the shot that I found out my experience was super typical.

So, a little more than a year passed and I finally had a period -- ONE period -- and found out that I was pregnant AGAIN! (This seems to be something I do easily.) Cue the nausea. Cue the trips to the ER. Cue yet another round of weight gain. 

A few weeks after N2 was born, Grumpy was sent overseas and I moved back home to the South. Again, good diet, lots of walking and hiking, but the weight wouldn't budge. I went to the doctor. Nothing wrong with my blood work except my liver enzymes were high because of the fat in my liver. She said I needed to try to lose weight and put me on Prozac. I'm still not sure of the connection there, or why a PA for a liver specialist was handing out anti-depressants. I didn't lose any weight. And I didn't tolerate the Prozac well. I pretty much just slept. Constantly. So that didn't last long.

In December of 2001, Grumpy came home on a two-week leave. Two friggin weeks. And of course I get pregnant again. I miscarried that one at 10 weeks. I really tried to get myself together after that, eating right and exercising. And I think I lost maybe about 10 pounds over the next six months before Grumpy returned stateside for good. That's when we got sent to Bumfuck where medical care isn't really a thing. (Really, this is an AWFUL place -- the first question asked when anyone hears that you've been stationed there is, "Who did you piss off?")

We had about a month between his return and his report date. The plan was to get an IUD ASAP and look for job and like, be a person and stuff, but no. At my appointment to get an IUD, about a week after arrival, I found out it was too late because..,(drumroll)...I was pregnant again. (Seriously, you'd think my sex life was WAY better than it actually was, but no, I'm just really really fertile.) Again, all the nausea, all the vomiting -- once on N2's wee junk because while changing him, the smell of his poopy diaper overwhelmed my gag reflex. The smell of the rotisserie chicken at Walmart made me so sick that I was unable to make it fast enough to the restrooms and hurled on the floor of the dairy aisle at least twice. And somehow, I STILL gained weight. The fuck??

After the arrival of AndrogyNut, a full two weeks late, I lost exactly 9.5 pounds, which is exactly how much she weighed, and then proceeded to gain another 20. Again, I tried to eat right, exercise. There's pictures of me at 300+ pounds (I think I topped out at 320) with her strapped to me in a front-carrier, hiking with the family. (I spent a lot of time wearing all three of my babies, both front and back. I did most of my hiking then carrying a baby -- when the got older and moved to the backpack, my braids made for great reins.) But the weight would not budge.

By this time, I think Yahoo was the search engine of choice and was able to research options for bariatric surgery. I was just sick of this shit. My dad died at the age of 50, a few weeks after N1 was born, from liver disease. They said he had hepatitis from an unspecified source because they never isolated a virus. I don't think there was one. I think he was just fat. He topped out over 400 pounds. Either his doctors were never observant enough to come to this conclusion or they were just too polite to tell my dad he was morbidly obese and that his obesity was likely killing him. (Why would you not tell your morbidly obese patient dying of fatty liver that he was fat and it was killing him? You'd never be too polite to tell a patient they had cancer. Ugh.)

I knew I didn't want bypass, even though it put Carnie Wilson in the pages of Playboy. I researched that and the side effects and noped the fuck out. I read about the reversible, adjustable lap band, but I'd have to go to Mexico to get it because it wasn't FDA approved. Tricare wasn't going to pay for that. I decided on banding because it was reversible and didn't involve rearranging my intestines. (I think they're just fine where they are, thanks.) The closest qualified surgeon I could find was about 3 hours away. I asked my general practitioner at the military hospital for a referral. She said she was wondering if I was ever going to bring that up. (Again with the being too polite to tell your sick, fat patient she/he is sick and fat. This is just stupidity.)

Had the surgery. Went on a liquid diet for a month. Lost my mind. Slowly began eating regular food, being very conscious of what I could and could not eat. Lost a little over 100 pounds the first year. Reveled in my new body (which was just like my pre-baby body, only a lot saggier). Got used to throwing up. Grump got used to pulling to the side of the road on a moment's notice so I could throw up. Still totally thought the surgery worth it.

I STILL, almost 15 years later, think the surgery was worth it. Last check, I'm not pre-diabetic and my liver is just fine. I've kept the weight off, though I still battle that 30 or so pounds I battled before pregnancy. I'm not going to drop dead at 50. However, the not eating thing has gotten out of control. I've had to have several endoscopic procedures where the gastro doc goes down my throat with a balloon and blows the band back open because it keeps closing. The last time he did this, back in July, he told me he was willing to keep repeating this procedure but really, I needed to have it out.

I was still settling into what I thought was going to be my permanent job, and didn't want to take the time off for surgery, so I put it off, and off, and off. Finally in October I got frustrated enough (and felt fairly secure in my job, joke's on me hahaha, bitches) to go see the surgeon, who agreed that yes, it needed to come out and he could do that handily. I scheduled the surgery for Dec 20 when big corporation marketing shuts down for the holidays so as not to interrupt the job I no longer have. Jesus the irony.

Anyway, today I went in for an imaging appointment. I did the whole barium swallow thing. The band has completely shut and the yummy barium milkshake was exiting to the right, where my stomach tissue should be stapled shut, as illustrated in the above picture. I don't even know how that could happen. But yeah, fucker needs to come out.

Grumpy is afraid I will get fat again, but seeing as I had the doc go full scorched earth on my girly junk (slashed and burned) as soon as Andro was born, I think I will be fine.

Now the only thing is finding a new job once I'm healed.

Goddamit multinational corporation marketing department!

A Perfect Birthday

So much weekend. And time to write about it without anyone looking over my shoulder! Yay forced week's vacation!

First big news -- I am now on Twitter as @TheButternutty and this is my first foray into the Twitterverse. Expect much Punch Brothers stalkings. 

This birthday weekend was in the top three birthday weekends of all time. (I was volunteering for the Obama campaign and was the volunteer coordinator in the campaign office on election day, which was my birthday. That one is in serious competition for Best Birthday Ever. The other was my first time performing at a music/art festival at one of the coolest venues of all time called Pasaquan. Google it.)

We had a lovely drive out, lots of conversation. Lots of career angst, still reeling from being laid off, wondering if it was me personally or just that I was first in line to get cut. It's so frustrating trying to get any career traction starting from the bottom after two decades of staying home with children. But this is about my amazing birthday weekend, not my job angst.

When we arrived at the llama farm, the driveway gate was closed and a tortoise-shell llama (didn't know they came in tortoise-shell) was standing there at the gate, staring at us, looking very judgy. She did not know why we were there and she did not approve. You've never experienced condescension until you've been condescended to by a llama. We had to drive down back down the road to find cell service to call our host to open the gate for us. He apologized and shortly greeted us with the warmth of an old friend. 

His home is a gorgeous rambling farmhouse on 40 hilly acres. The back sides of the house are wrapped with an extensive deck with multiple gazebos (now that's a fun word to say out loud) and a fire pit that he had already set up with kindling and a stack of wood at the ready. Grumpy and I, being old and boring, had already planned ahead for the evening's drinkings. We picked up a few bottles of wine on the way there, thinking that relaxing in the room would be better than drinking in a bar and then attempting to drive the curving mountain roads back to the inn. Turns out it was a good decision as we were then fully prepared for the evening around the fire.

Our co-guests were a pair of 60-something newlyweds that were just adorable. Both had lost previous spouses and finally found post-widowhood happiness in each other. They were interesting, personable, and seemed to enjoy our company, even though I proceeded to get fairly more than tipsy and I don't exactly remember all of the details of the evening. (I asked her the next morning if I'd made an ass of myself and she replied that I was delightful and that even if I had made an ass of myself, she'd never have told me. That's a classy lady.)

We spent Saturday wandering around and exploring the local area. The town of Logan is ridiculously cute with some jaw-dropping architecture on the local churches. After stopping for a coffee (and replenishing the wine supply), we spent the rest of the afternoon driving up and down and around the hairpin curves of the foothills backroads. This extra-long, extra-warm summer -- a frightening indication of global warming -- has finally broken and the fall colors have peaked weeks later than usual, which, despite the frightening global consequences, made for some breathtaking views. Grumpy really wanted to do some hiking but my old-lady knee was protesting and so he had to be happy with a short walk around a cute pond.

We headed back to the room and gussied ourselves up for a nice dinner and an evening with NOAM PIKELNY!!! I was a little nervous about a two-hour, solo banjo show. I honestly wouldn't have traveled so far to see any other banjo player. (I'm not sure I'd have left the house to spend two hours listening to any other solo banjo player.) But, being as I'm seriously stalker level when it comes to the Punch Brothers on YouTube, and I've seem them together live several times, I was betting that he would use his droll humor to break up the banjoing and my bet paid off in a most delightful way. Between bits of pure genius instrumental work, he had me doubled over laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. 

At the end of the show, he announced that he'd be downstairs at the merch table signing things. Oh my wildest hopes! Oh the daydreams I dared joke about *maybe* becoming reality! I sort of shoved my way down to stairs to the merch table as soon as the house lights came up and was first in line with my Universal Favorite tour t-shirt and my program. After what seemed an eternity (maybe five minutes) he descended the stairs all sweaty. I was trembling. The program in my hand was trembling. My heart was pounding. I have never fangirled so hard in my life. I managed to pull myself together enough to tell him that I'd come all the way there to spend my birthday with him and could he please sign my program (although I did buy a t-shirt) because it had the date on it, which is my birthday? Did I mention birthday? After he signed it for me, I looked up at him, putting on my most adoring face and said, in my most earnest voice, "You're like, one of my top five favorite Punch Brothers ever, of all time. Seriously." And he laughed -- like a grunt-snort-chuckle. I MADE NOAM PIKELNY LAUGH!!! I'm framing the program and hanging it in my dining room with the rest of my religious relics. 

After the excitement of Saturday, I thought surely there was nothing Sunday that could even compare, but after breakfast our host let us walk the llamas. Like dogs. On leashes. And I got to walk the condescending tortie. She was so pretty and so soft, and actually quite sweet. Grumpy was assigned the tortie's mother, who was REALLY condescending and judgy. She actually spit at him. More of a "pfft" than an actual spit, but certainly a sign of disapproval. I didn't even try not to laugh out loud. 

We finished out our day with a lovely hike around the gorge at Conckle's Hollow and spent the drive back listening to the Prairie Home Companion podcast of the show we missed the night before -- a perfect benediction to a perfect weekend. 

Good night llamas. Goodnight Noam. Goodnight 42. Good night moon.

So, No More of That

I needn't worry about the Word Murderer anymore. I got laid off. Happy Birthday! I'm thinking they're going to end up regretting that. They needed to cut hours because that department lost 10% of their funding. They're moving towards more automated forms of communication like texting and emails. The old ladies that I worked with will NOT be able to keep up. But I was the temp and they've been there for years - seriously, pushing 80. My other two coworkers were younger than me. One, who was to be known as PsychoNut because she's a psyche major and extremely not psycho, will be able to keep up. But she works two days a week and will presumably be moving on to her big girl life when she graduates. Oh well. 

The agency I work with already has another job lined up that starts next week and will last through the end of December, which is fine. I have a surgery planned for Dec 20. (I deliberately planned it around the two week break the department takes over the holidays so as not to inconvenience anyone. That was productive.) It sounds like a fun gig. I will be helping the symphony reorganize their music filing system and I'll get to work in a gorgeous, historic building. 

Right now I'm blogging from the car. (Obviously not driving.) We are on our way to the foothills to spend my birthday weekend at a bed and breakfast llama farm and see Noam Pickelny (only the best banjo player of all time and also a Punch Brother) play at the historic Nelsonville Opera House, which seems pretty random as the opera house is, from what I can tell, the only thing in Nelsonville. Not sure where the rest of the audience is coming from. 

Grumpy thinks I should be paying attention to him and our picturesque surroundings rather than have my face in my phone so I'll cut this off here. 

Llama farm y'all! Happy birthday. 

Yay November!

It’s my favorite time of year. My birthday is this month. The weather is starting to get cold. And I get to complain about how much I hate the holidays and pumpkin spice. (While secretly and begrudgingly enjoying both.)

Quick tip – if you’re on the thick-middled and assless side of the hourglass spectrum and your jeans are a bit tighter in the waist than you’d like in order to not sag in the butt, you can run a small rubber band through the button hole and loop it over the button and give yourself an extra inch or so of waist and a little extra stretch.

So, I had an interesting weekend. We drove the long way out to Piqua to have burgers at what is supposed to be the best burger place in Piqua, but I’m now doubting the advice of Yelp! as the place appears to be permanently closed. We ended up having burgers at Rally’s. I haven’t eaten at a Rally’s in over 20 years and I was disappointed. They used to be so good. But I got a sad, dried up little burger on a stale bun. Bummer.

Piqua is an historic town in the northern Dayton metro area. (How pretentious is THAT bit of grammar – “an historic”?) It dates back to the French and Indian War (which was NOT between the French and the Indians, which is the only thing I remember about it from 11^th grade history) as a village that grew outside of a battle fort. The downtown area is adorable with quaint storefronts (that are actually fronting viable businesses) and houses that are regal and gorgeously weathered.

Piqua is also where my grandfather ran to when he ran off with my aunt’s English teacher in the early 70’s.  I wasn’t born yet, but I can only imagine that was a bit of an awkward time, particularly since my aunt was attending a very conservative religious high school in western North Carolina. I remember my mom coming up here a few times to visit my grandfather, but I never came along. It was weird walking around town Saturday, wondering if my grandfather had ever eaten at that diner, or gotten his hair cut at that barber’s. I wonder if he ever had burgers at that supposedly really great place that is out of business.

It was during the divorce that my grandmother found out some odd details about the man she married. My grandfather was an engineer of some sort at a manufacturing plant of some sort – the details have always been kind of vague – and met my grandmother during the lead-up to WW2. She was a factory floor worker at the time. He enlisted and spent the bulk of the war as an engineer, mostly digging latrines in the Philippines. When he got back, they bought a little farm and he continued to work in some sort of manufacturing facility in some engineering capacity. I’m sure he paid the major bills, but my grandmother raised goats and chickens and sold milk and eggs and also babysat for a little extra house-running money. My mom grew up thinking they were a working class family at best.

And then the divorce. Dude was a millionaire. Mostly inherited. His father, as it turns, was very successful and, although charming and gracious, apparently on the frugal side, and probably good with investments and such. I would imagine that my grandfather was raised have the idea that “we don’t always do what we want just because we can” heavily reinforced. I mean, one doesn’t get rich and stay rich by spending all of one’s money. And my grandfather, it would seem, took this quite to heart in his quirky, introverted way, and was a miser with his wife and children.

My grandmother, on the other hand, grew up in a subsistence farming family, the youngest of 15 children, and probably was told she couldn’t have everything she wanted because it simply wasn’t possible. When she got her half of the wad in the settlement, she finally COULD have everything she wanted and blew through close to a million bucks over the next 15-20 years on trips all over the world, winters in Florida, and an eclectic collection of doodads that would make anyone on Hoarders proud. (She had an insane collection of cigar boxes. And she was very much anti-smoking. Whatever.)

So, now we know where I don’t get my sense of fiscal responsibility, and possibly where I get my lack of same. I can blow through some money like you wouldn’t believe. At least that’s one thing I have/had in common with my grandmother.

We hightailed it back home on the interstate to watch the livestream of PHC on YouTube, but there was no livestream, only audio, which we could have listened to in the car. I was sorely disappointed and Grumpy was, well, grumpy. It was still an awesome episode. 

It has been interesting, taking these drives through the Midwestern countryside over the past year, watching the cycle of life – farmers out planting, seedlings shooting through the dirt, talk stalks of corn and bushy green soybean plants thriving, and then maturing and turning brown, and finally farmers out on their tractors harvesting.

I was thinking about how idyllic it all seems, what with these little farming communities seeming so healthy and prosperous, until it occurred to me that I was seeing fields of future high fructose corn syrup, soybean oil, and whatever byproducts used in animal feed. Basically, we have spent the last year admiring picturesque fields of diabetes and heart disease.

I feel deflated.