My Baby Boy Came Home and Asked For Shepherd's Pie

The 19 year old - the one that decided at the age of 15 he was thoroughly done with being parented, who decided he was done going to school in 9th grade, who was sneaking out the window at 12 or 13 to run drugs for neighborhood thugs, who used to rifle through my dresser and steal things to buy cigarettes and pot, who used to get so violently angry that I consistently called the cops because I was legit afraid of him, who had to go inpatient at a psych hospital, who got kicked out of his last roommate's house because, in a drunk rage-fit, he threatened to kill his roommate - has decided now that he does need to be parented.

Daddy left for Georgia early Saturday morning, grabbed him, and immediately turned around and drove back. My baby boy is home. He's aware that living here comes with conditions. My house, my rules. There will no smoking in the house, no throwing butts outside the house, no weed anywhere near the house, If I tell him to go for a walk because he is becoming agitated (a good sign shit's about to go down) he will go for a walk. That usually calms him down. He will go back to school, he will actively participate in working on his mental/behavioral health and cooperate with his therapist, and he will actively seek employment. He will respect my personal space and his sister's personal space. The goal is to get him out and on his own, successfully adulting as soon as possible.

In return, he gets to stay in our damp basement with the drain in the floor because water runs under the door every time it rains (but at least that affords him some personal space), have access to proper hygiene facilities, and gets to eat mum's cooking. That, to him, is the biggest perk. Before his father and I made the decision to offer him this opportunity he had asked for my shepherd's pie recipe. I don't generally use - or write down - recipes and I haven't made shepherd's pie in so long I couldn't remember what I put in it. When the decision was made for him to move, he first request was that I make him a shepherd's pie when he got here. We made one today together. I used to use TVP as the meat substitute but I don't have access to that anymore - at least not the kind I used to use that was in chunks - so I googled vegetarian shepherd's pie recipes for a suitable meat sub. The best suggestion I found was crimini mushrooms. They have a hearty, meaty texture and don't really taste mushroomy when cooked in gravy.

For posterity, here is my approximation of a recipe.

For the stew:

Half a stick of butter and about an equal amount of olive oil
1 diced onion
3 cloves of garlic, minced
(This is where I added about a teaspoon of salt to help draw the moisture from the onions.)
1 pound of crimini (or Baby Bella) mushrooms, diced
5 medium carrots, peeled and diced
3 stalks of celery diced

Melt the butter with the olive oil over low heat while you chop the veg. Chop and drop veg - in the order listed - into the pan as you go. I used my big, deep saute pan but a Dutch oven would work nicely here as well.

Between the garlic and the mushrooms, cut 3 pounds of red and/or gold potatoes into chunks and cover with water, well salted. When that comes to a boil, it should take about 20 minutes or so for the potatoes to get soft. (19 helped with the potatoes so I didn't have to interrupt my veg chopping, but you can let onions and garlic sweat over low heat for long enough to do this.) 

When the veg is all in the pan, add about 1/4 cup of flour and stir continuously for 3 or 4 minutes to brown the flour a bit. Make sure the flour is evenly distributed among the veg and completely coated in fat. Pour in one 12 oz beer and bring to a boil, stirring constantly. When that starts to thicken pour in about half of a quart of vegetable broth or stock, a bit more salt, lots of pepper, some Worcestershire sauce, a generous teaspoon of smoked paprika, and (if you have it - I do because I'm a complete anglophile) a dollop of HP brown sauce. Pickapeppa sauce would work too.

Let that simmer, stirring frequently, until it reduces by about half and the gravy is thick.

Meanwhile, your potatoes are probably done. Drain them and return them to the pot. Mash them up with whatever you usually put in mashed potatoes. I used a splash of buttermilk, half a cup of sour cream, and the other half of that stick of butter, and plenty of salt and pepper. I also prefer to hand mash my potatoes - I like them a bit lumpy.

Right as you take the stew off the heat, add in a package of frozen peas and stir. Dump the stew into a casserole dish. I used my favorite red one that is slightly smaller than a standard 9x13 pan. Top with the mashed potatoes. Top that with about 4 ounces of grated extra sharp cheddar. Bake at 400 for about 30 minutes or until the stew is bubbling up and the cheese is browned.

The whole family (minus me) was a bit dubious of the mushrooms subbing for meat, but everyone was thrilled with the results. I'm the only one in my family really behind this whole eating vegetarian thing but nobody missed the meat with the mushrooms and the rich gravy. 19 snapped a picture to send to his 21 year old brother just to gloat. His brother, jealous because he isn't eating mum's cooking, told him to fuck off.

Is that worth a fuck off?

We Be Jammin', Yeah!

My garden has been kind to me this year. I've had a bountiful harvest of eggplants, peppers, herbs, watermelon, but most especially tomatoes. I've made capresi, marinara sauce, tossed halved cherry tomatoes in cream sauces and pasta with pesto, and popped plenty of my chocolate cherry and sungold cherry like candy. I made salsa, had sliced tomatoes as a side dish with a variety of entrees, made fried green tomatoes. I was beginning to run out of tomato ideas.

Then one Friday at my neighborhood Friday-only pay-as-you-can pizza place, Moriah Pie (it's really cool concept for a restaurant and the pizza is delicious -- check it out here ) and one of their featured desserts for the week was homemade vanilla ice cream with sungold tomato marmalade and a thyme-infused shortbread cookie. It was DIVINE.

The next day I was Googling recipes for cherry tomato marmalade. None of them quite appealed to me but Mark Bittman's recipe featured on Epicurious gave me a template to work from. My first batch was fairly small. I had a generous 4 cups of diced raw tomato, skin on. I assumed that was about the right weight. I added the sugar and a generous amount of chopped lemon basil. (If you aren't familiar with lemon basil, familiarize yourself ASAP. It has a very bright, fresh flavor -- much more delicate than regular sweet basil -- with a lemony undertone. We planted two tiny seedlings this year that are both now big and bushy. It's quite hearty and easy to grow.) I ended up needing to add more basil, salt, and some lemon juice for some acidity. It was yummy, but I wasn't overly fond of the texture of the bit of skin in the jam. I also let it *almost* overcook and it was a bit stickier than I preferred, rather difficult to spread.

Yesterday I had considerably more tomatoes than I did starting my first batch. I blanched, shocked, cooled, and peeled them this time. This is the easiest way to de-skin tomatoes. (Best to do them in batches.) Bring a big stock pot of water to a boil and drop in 3 or 4 big tomatoes or a dozen or so plum or cherry tomatoes. When the natural juices inside the tomato come to a boil the steam will create pressure inside the skin and the tomato will split its skin - sometimes with an audible *pop*! Use a straining scoop to remove the popped tomatoes to a bowl of cold water to stop the cooking then transfer them to a colander to make room in the water for more tomatoes. You may have to switch out your water as dumping boiling hot tomatoes into cool water tends to make the water hot.

After you've blanched, shocked, and drained all your tomatoes, wait for them to cool before handling. Even after shocking them in cold water they can still remain too warm to touch for quite a while. Once they are cool, the skins should pop right off. If you pinch a cherry tomato right, the pulp squirts out like the inside of a muscadine grape when you pinch it. The larger tomatoes are a little more difficult. Prepare to get your hands messy. You will have to squeeze and pull to get the tomato pulp separated from the stem and the fibrous part of the tomato below the stem. Once you've peeled all of your tomatoes, you can either get your hands in and squish them or whiz them in a food processor or blender depending on what kind of texture you want. I found that hand squishing kept too many of the cherry and plum tomatoes intact and ended up giving it a quick whiz to break up whole tomatoes, but still have some chunks for texture. I ended up with about 8 cups of peeled tomato.

I rinsed out my stock pot and dumped in my tomatoes, a teaspoon of salt, 2 cups of sugar, two generous handfuls of chopped lemon basil leaves, the juice of half a lemon, and brought my concoction to a boil.

Then I settled in to watch Gordon Ramsey's Master Chef while they simmered away. In the episode I was watching, Gordon was instructing his contestants on how to make minestrone. One step involved putting a large sprig of fresh basil over the chopped vegetables, already covered in stock, to allow it to simmer and steep like the basil was a tea bag. I immediately went out and snipped off several large sprigs of lemon basil and tossed them into the pot. Then I decided I didn't want to spend the next couple of hours babysitting a stock pot of tomato jam. I turned off the flame, put the lid on, poured a glass of wine, and curled up beside the hub on the couch, eventually drifting off while watching vintage episodes of The French Chef with Julia Childs on Amazon.

This morning I came downstairs and immediately commenced tomato jamming. I removed the sprigs of lemon basil and brought the pot back to a boil over medium heat. I patiently waited, ate breakfast, played on Twitter, stirred it periodically, pondered the meaning of life, debated whether I should go ahead and start on my psych homework, stirred again. The tomatoes bubbled away, reducing, concentrating. The water on the top cooked down to syrup and the syrup eventually evaporated away leaving a thick stew of tomato solids, shiny with the sugar. I wasn't sure if I'd hit the jam point yet or not. I tasted it, checked for flavor, added more lemon basil, and let it reduce a bit more. I'd reduced by about 2/3 of it's original amount by this time.

Eventually the idea occurred to me to put a teaspoon of jam in a small dish in the fridge for about 5 minutes to see what the cooled texture would be like. Five minutes I waited, stirring frequently, willing my jam not to burn to the bottom of the pan. I pulled the small dish out of the fridge and lo and behold -- I had jam!

I probably should have taken a picture at this point. Sorry.

I'd promised my mother I'd send her a sample of my next batch of jam because she didn't believe she'd like basil in jam. (She will soon find out the magic of lemon basil and admit to the error of her ways.) I had obtained a tiny mason jar containing a single shot of apple flavored "moonshine" for this purpose. Hub did the honors of emptying the tiny jar for me. He said it tasted awful. This was the second tiny moonshine jar I've used for tomato jam and I disposed of the last shot. It wasn't as bad as he said. Either way, the jar sure is cute.

While my tomatoes were simmering, I boiled the thoroughly cleaned jar, label removed, with the lid for about 3 minutes to sterilize it. I left it in the water to cool while the tomatoes simmered. Then when the tomato jam was done, but still boiling hot, I spooned jam into the sterile jar and screwed the lid on tightly. I know this isn't technically the correct canning procedure, but I think it'll keep the jam good for the amount of time required to mail it from Ohio to North Carolina.

The rest of the jam was dispersed into a variety of empty jars. (We generally save glass jars to reuse rather than recycling. Most of our "glasses" used for drinking are actually empty jars.)

I ended up with a total of about 3ish cups of jam. (Remember, for reference, the front jar is a 2 oz shot glass jar.) The other jars had been thoroughly cleaned in the dish washer but I didn't bother sterilizing them. Jam should keep good for as long as I need it to in the fridge without needing a sterilized jar.

I took the suggestion of mutual follow Twitterer @uncutmyhair and used some of the cooled jam in a grilled cheese sandwich -- provolone (because that's what I have) on multi-grain seeded bread. I didn't get a picture because I was hungry and ate it. It was as good as I had imagined.

I still have half a quart sized Mason jar of ricotta cheese my BFF and I made last weekend from local milk sitting in the fridge. I'm thinking maybe I need to make a ricotta tart with a flaky, buttery pastry crust and top it with a dollop of tomato jam.

Recipes to me are merely sources of inspiration. They are not direct edicts set in stone. If you want to make jam and don't have any lemon basil (in which case I pity you) use something else you have on hand. Thyme might be good. Salsa flavors like hot peppers and cilantro (if you're into cilantro, which I'm not - yuck!) and lime for the acid element would work well for a spicy tomato jam. You could spice it up like the Bittman recipe, but that doesn't look appetizing to me at all. Whatever you do, have fun with it and hit me back in the comments with your combination and usage suggestions.

I'm a Philomath! Wheee!

I took a test at https://high5test.com/ for my public speaking course. Our first speech, week after next, will be prompted by the results of this test. We are to introduce ourselves and explain an aspect of our lives or career goals in terms of at least three of our top five strengths. Mine are:

Problem Solver -- This is fairly self explanatory.

Believer  -- Note that this means that I'm motivated more by ethics than personal gain -- not that I go around believing in things. Although I still insist fairies are real.

Philomath -- I'll get to that.

Thinker -- Mental exercise is, to me, something to do for fun or sport rather than a chore required to complete work/school tasks. I question things for the sake of questioning things.

Deliverer -- Note that this does not mean that I am the Messiah, but rather I take my commitments seriously and value my reputation for reliability.

A philomath is, simply put, one who loves learning for the sake of learning. The fact that I immediately latched onto this word because I'd never heard it before is evidence that my assessment results are correct. I have a natural curiosity of the world around me. I need to know all of the things. Well, until that thing bores me and then I move on to the next thing I need to know everything about. According to my test assessment results a philomath craves novelty.

My speech is going to be centered around career goals -- ABA therapy; why I want to be an ABA therapist; what turned me onto it; why I think it plays to my strengths.

I know it's been a minute since I blogged. Quick catch up.

I lost my job. My agency assigned a new position. I started back to school. That position ended, even though it was supposed to be temp-to-hire. I decided I was done with temping. I found my new forever job and got fired within 4 months because of bullshit. (I know it sounds like I'm not taking responsibility, but even my direct supervisors at the last two places agreed it was bullshit.) Now I'm unemployed and focusing on school. I'm taking 18 hours this semester and most of it on campus, taking advantage of the free time I have due to unemployment.

Oh, and the D&D thing never panned out. We couldn't find a group that we fit into to join because apparently we don't geek properly. Whatever. Elitist geek fuckheads.

Okay, all caught up.

So I want to be an ABA or Applied Behavioral Analysis therapist. I can start now as an ABA tech with a high school diploma, a clean record, and 40 hours on online learning. I *might* have a part time job soon at an agency I applied at back in June. They are expanding and hiring new techs, but their timeline hasn't been going to plan. They wanted things to be swinging by early July and here it is almost September and they still haven't launched the expansion. Cross fingers for me. If I get this job I can grow with them, climbing their ladder as my education progresses through and beyond a master's degree.

And now I know I'm a philomath and that totally made my day.

I Promised You Squash Two Years Ago

So.....I haven't written a blog entry in a damn long time. This is a thing I should be doing more often.

Also, it's the first day of school and I should DEFINITELY be blogging instead of getting a jump on homework, yes?

Yes. I thought so too.

I've been promising my squash casserole recipe forever, and I have one in the oven now so it seems like the time to make good. Remember, before we start -- this isn't the food blog where you get a long, annoying narrative followed by a nice, easy to follow recipe. I'm only here for the long, annoying narrative. There will be no nice, easy recipe at the end.

Squash casserole has been my favorite thing since forever. When I was a tot it was part of my mother's regular dinner rotation. I remember one time when she made it I asked for seconds. She gave me a choice between seconds or dessert. I chose seconds. And that's back when I actually liked sweets.

When I was a newlywed I asked my mom for her recipe and she gave me the basic rundown. She forgot to tell me to cook the squash first. Fuck you mom. Cooking the squash first -- indeed, HOW you cook the squash first -- is half the key to the whole thing. Well, 3/4ths of the key. Okay, maybe 7/8th of the key. The sriracha is just the kicker but I digress. (I digress a lot. Have you noticed?)

It took years but I took my mom's outline, as well as bits of ideas gleaned from various cookbooks (this was before the age of Google) and flat out perfected the recipe. And now that we live in the age of Google, I can't find a recipe like mine. Like I said -- it's the HOW you cook the squash. Every recipe I've seen calls for boiling or steaming the squash and then draining it and that's just nonsense. Boiling or steaming the squash leaves all of the flavor in the water and then you have mushy, flavorless nothing to put in your casserole. Fuck that. Sautee is the only way to go. When you sautee the moisture from the squash evaporates and the flavors concentrate and caramelize and it also involves a bunch of butter and butter makes everything better so put your damn steamer away and get out your biggest sautee pan.

I used to make this casserole for a very hungry family of 5. Now I make it for 3 and we have far more moderate appetites (no more growing boys). I'm giving you the smaller version. The larger version has an embarassing amount of butter, but you can double it.

Start by melting half a stick of butter over medium heat in that big ass saute pan while you chop your onions. If you're of the (correct) idea that onions make food taste like food use one big ass onion here or two small onions. If you're meh about onions, use one small onion. If you're allergic to onions (*ahem* you know who you are) mercy on your poor soul, not being able to eat food that tastes like food. You can either dice or slice your onions -- this will depend on how you prep your squash. If, like me, you appreciate the squashy texture of squash, you want to slice the squash potato chip thin -- in which case slice your onions as thin as you can. I have an antique slicer thing, but the slicing side of a box grater works too. If you have a mandolin that works, but also fuck you because I've always wanted one and they're stupid expensive. If you (or your squash-phobic family) aren't into the glorious squashiness of squash, grate it and dice your onions.

Once you get the onions into the melted butter, salt generously. This helps to draw out the moisture. Slice (or grate) 3 pounds of yellow summer squash. (Dammit. Why didn't I take a picture of my pile of summer squash?) You can just dump each squash into the pan as you finish. Otherwise you're going to end up with so much squash on your work surface that have no place to work. You'll end up with a big ass pile of squash in your pan. (Imagine what a pile 6 pounds of squash makes!)

Salt generously again and stir until the squash and onions are incorporated and all coated with butter. You don't have to stir constantly, but do give it a toss every so often. As that sizzles away, steaming and smelling lovely, start working on the casserole part of the squash casserole. Grate about a pound or so (if you're going to or-so, or-so on the more side rather than the less) of the sharpest cheddar you can find. If it can cut a bitch, you're going in the right direction. Reserve a handful of cheese in a separate bowl for the topping. I usually eyeball this stuff, but if I had to guess I'd say I use a half  cup each of FULL FAT (if I catch you trying to low-fat this mother fucker we're gonna have words) cottage cheese and sour cream. Then 2 or 3 eggs, depending on how eggy you feel and/or how many eggs you've got. Add to that a little squirt of sriracha -- but just a little. We are going for personality here, not heat. Lastly, smash an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers. Putting them in a freezer bag and whacking them with a wine bottle works for this. Add a small bit of cracker crumbs to the dairy mixture to tighten it up a bit.

After you've done all of this, melt the other half of that stick of butter in a small sauce pan. Pay attention to it. Don't get distracted by Twitter and forget about it and almost burn it, like I totally didn't just do. (We're going to call it "browned butter" and consider ourselves gourmands. Shut up.) Add the crumbs to the melted butter to cool them so you don't pour hot butter onto your reserved cheese and melt it. Not that I've ever done that. (Shut up.) Mix the buttery crumbs with the cheese and set aside.

Keep an eye on your squash. It should be reduced by a lot by now, but you want it to be all the way reduced. You want the bottom of the pan to be completely dry and the squash and onions start to caramelize. You want it more than good and dead.

This looks pretty dead but we aren't scraping browned bits off the bottom of the pan yet. Keep going. Now would be a good time to play on Twitter because you've gotta wait this shit out. I probably should have mentioned before now that you need to preheat your oven to 350. (That's 176.667 if you're European. Weirdos.)

Now we're scraping browned bits off the bottom and may proceed to the next step. Turn the squash out of the sautee pan and into the dairy slop. Scrape every last bit of the browned bits in. This is pure flavor y'all. I forgot to tell you to add a very generous amount of freshly ground black pepper. Rich dairy dishes just scream for copious amounts of black pepper in my opinion. Mix the squash and the dairy slop up thoroughly. Check the mix for seasoning. No, a little bite of raw egg won't kill you. Shut up.

Turn the mix into a casserole dish and sprinkle the cheesy, buttery crumbs on top. I found this casserole dish at Goodwill for $3 and did a happy happy dance. I love red kitchen things. I also love casserole dishes. I especially love casserole dishes with handles. Admire my dish.

Bake for about 40-45 minutes. You want a browned, crispy top, bubbly sides, browned around the edges, and it should set like very firm jello. It should be gorgeous. Admire.

Let it set for 15-20 minutes before eating it. Play on Twitter and bask in the smell of deliciousness. I'll be serving it up later with greens and fresh sliced tomato from my garden. Be jealous.

Becoming a Gamer Girl

I mentioned before that the girlchild asked for therapy. One of the issues we are working on is social anxiety paired with a need for social activity. The therapist suggested getting involved in age-appropriate social activity groups. I know from experience that the normal routes to finding social peers won't work for someone as odd as she is. They certainly never worked for me. I never gelled with the other moms at playgroup and I didn't book club very well.  I learned to go where the other weird people gather. For me it was the Open Mic scene, art and music festivals, and a knitting group. Knitters are weird, weird folk.

Her thing is gaming. Today she took public transportation downtown for the first time and will be going to the main library for a scheduled Gaming Unplugged (organized board games) activity listed on the library teen activities calendar. Her last text said she'd gotten downtown and was a little lost looking for her lunch destination, which is very close to the library. I think Sgt. is on the phone with her talking her through it as they've both gone radio silent in text. He works near downtown, takes the bus, and is very familiar with the area she's at. He is also in easy rescue distance.

(I was right. He talked her to her lunch destination. He's going to talk her to the library as well. The GPS on her phone isn't working for some reason.)

Another thing we are going to try as a family is Dungeons and Dragons. I've always been interested but was raised being told it was a path to Satanism, and though I didn't believe that, I still never got the chance to play. I found a local Meetup group that is having a beginner-friendly event at a gaming store on Saturday.

I've had the past couple of days off work because work is incredibly slow (yay tariffs! forced unpaid vacation!) so I've been spending my time developing my character and Sgt's character. To make it easy for Sarge I'm creating a character that is basically him in a parallel universe. He is a male human ranger. He is a member of the Watchers, which is a small private semi-military group paid for by local land owners. Their job is to roam the lands looking for and stopping poachers and highwaymen. He was raised as an only child by his father because his mother died in childbirth. This is significant because I have a strong distaste for both my mother in law and brother in law. I killed her off and he never got born. So take that!

My character is a halfling young woman who is a rogue. She left her little village on the eve of her wedding day and makes her way to a village on the border of the halfling homeland on a major road where people of all races travel. She gets a job as a bartender and learns how to cuss and drink like a sailor.

Her backstory is full of Benedict Cumberbatch references. Her name is Berthala Bramblecreek (one of our family games is mangling his name) but she is referred to as Bert. Her home village is Otter Creek (because Otterbatch memes) and the town where she settles is Bakerston at mile marker 221 and her establishment is The Bee. (Get it? 221B Baker St? Yeah. I'm a geek.)

Her bestie is a human male named Finnigan which is the Girlchild's character. He's a fighter and rather large. And he tends to throw her around a lot. And as she hasn't even started creating his character yet, we just know they meet when her drunk mouth gets her into a fight with another large male thing. They become traveling companions and eventually she becomes a con artist, but never takes anything from someone who needs it. Kind of Robin Hoodish.

I can't keep writing past where he saves her from a barfight without her input and she isn't here to input. So boo.

I'm fully expecting a text from the boss not to come in tomorrow. If so I'm going to ask if I should start looking for another job. I can't afford a job that repeated forces unpaid vacay days on me. I can't afford it either financially or mentally. I'm losing my mind today trying to occupy it with D&D and a couple of other stories I've been working on. 

Maybe I'll keep writing Bert's story and edit it as necessary to fit Finnigan's narrative.

I'm going to be extremely disappointed if I end up having to go job hunting again. I'm ten days from what should have been my perm hire date. I'm sick of this trumpfuckery and really so, so tired of all the winning.

Bittersweet

Yesterday we went for quite a ramble. We drove Hwy 52 along the Ohio River, stopping at interesting places to take pictures to share in an ongoing Twitter thread. The kids call this live tweeting I think?

We stopped at the Meldahl dam just in time to watch a tugboat push four barges piled with coal through the lock. The river is high enough that the dam was open so we didn't get to see the lock in action. We stopped in Ripley, which was a major stop on the Underground Railroad, and nearby Shawnee State Park for some pretty shots of nature. We followed the winding river up into the Appalachain foothills to Plymouth where we ate amazing pizza at a funky little pie joint.

From there we caught Hwy 23 north to Chillicothe. We stopped at a rest stop hoping to get a good panoramic view of the rolling hills, but the tree line was in the way. Rude. There, Sgt. Hubby reminded me that this was the same Hwy 23 that runs down to Johnson City, Tennessee (said with Wagon Wheel inflection, of course), which reminded me that it's also the highway that continues to Asheville, where I was born. (And hence my affinity for the Appys,)

I am very proud to be from Asheville. Even though I didn't grow up there, I always told everyone I was from Asheville. Both my mom's mom and my dad's parents lived there so I spent summers and Christmases and Thanksgivings there. I moved back after high school to attend UNCA. It is a wonderfully funky, hippy-dippy, artsy-fartsy town and the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains are the most gorgeous backdrop.

When Sgt. went overseas, I moved back to the area with my sons, then 2 and newborn. I say the area because I didn't actually move back to Asheville. I moved to the tiny town where my paternal grandmother was born and raised. My family history goes back several generations in that town.

But my Granny was a ballsy lady. She left town when she graduated high school and moved to the DC area of Virginia to attend secretarial college while serving as domestic help for a cousin. That's where she met and married a Department of the Treasury accountant who went on to join the Secret Service. They moved back to the area -- and by that I mean actually Asheville -- upon retirement. I practically grew up in that house on Hillview Circle.

They sold that house and bought a house in Granny's little hometown when I was 13. I think Grandaddy knew he wouldn't outlive her and wanted her to be near family. He died a week or so before I graduated high school and I went to live with her while I was at UNCA, but I was still an Asheville girl.

Eventually I left North Carolina to follow my soldier and while I was pregnant with Nut 1 Granny died suddenly in her sleep. My parents inherited the house and a few months later -- when Nut 1 was a newborn, Daddy died after a long battle with liver disease. When Sgt. went overseas, that is the house I moved to with the boys.

My mom stuck around for awhile to "help" with the boys (she wasn't much help, actually) but we were too much for her and she moved to Tennessee to be near her mother and brother. And that's when things fell apart. The boys were taken into foster care about a year and a half into Sgt's 2-year tour. I fell into a deep depression. I did stupid things. I already told this story and I don't care to revisit.

I know that the unfolding of my life wasn't actually my fault and I really did the best I could parenting three non-neurotypical children, and I know that even if that weren't the case, I can't change history, but I can't seem to let go of the guilt and shame of having my children taken into custody, of being a failed parent, of losing my sons. (They aren't dead - they're living down south and failing at adulting. They just aren't a part of my life, mostly by their own choice,) I don't know how to do that.

So, realizing I was on Hwy 23 in my beloved Appys was bittersweet. Can I go home again? Can I ever unpack this? Will I ever be able to go back to Asheville without stirring up all that pain? I haven't been back since I left to move to Ft. Bumfuck, so I don't know. If I turned right to go south instead of north to circle back home, would I be okay with that?

We went north, of course. I found my panoramic view. I took more pretty pictures and posted them to my Twitter thread. I came home to a bottle of chilled dry white, put my feet up on the porch, and did some Saturday porch drankin' with Sgt.

I have a good little life here. And I think the Girlchild is going to be okay -- she's actually in therapy now by her own request. I also will be okay. But I don't know if I'll ever be able to really unpack that bitter from the sweet.

Lots of New News

Well, one new thing, I got a new laptop so I can blog regularly again. But it has been quite a week of news. I got new sheets. They have sloths on them and I love them. I got a new duvet cover. (Previously I just had an extremely dingy duvet that has been well dogged.) My bedroom looks a million times more inviting. But the biggest new new is this past weekend. 

The Girlchild, Sgt. Nutty, and I went on a weekend adventure and really had fun. Like, the Girlchild wasn't off in headphone/smartphone land tuning us out. She was actually interacting. And Sgt. N and I didn't quibble at all. We just laughed. Laughed and laughed and laughed. 

We drove the long way -- about four hours -- through eastern KY to Red River Gorge yelling COW! every time we say a cow and HAAAAAAAAY! (in our best southern accent) every time we saw bales of hay and HORSE! every time we saw a horse. We cracked jokes and made horrifyingly bad puns. We interacted like... like... a happy little family. 

The Gorge puts the gorge in gorgeous. I'm originally from the NC mountains and the rolling Appalachians felt like home. It was a perfect day. Mid 70's in mid July with low humidity. 

We chose a short hike -- mile and a half -- but I was verging on hangry so we stopped at the first possible food, which was Subway, where Girlchild licked my face and said I tasted like sadness. I think sometimes this child isn't right. 

Our short hike started out through an enchanted forest and lead to a very steep downhill rock scramble and cliffs and climbs and amazing views where we could see those gorgeous mountains for miles and miles and miles. And then a slow uphill climb with two massive sets of stairs that killed both me and the Girl. Sgt acted like it was nothing and had no idea why we were losing our enthusiasm for the woods. (Protip - if you're going to do the Gray's Arch/Daniel Boone Cabin loop, start by going left so you go DOWN the stairs and slow inclines and scramble UP the rocks.)

The ride home was quiet. The short route -- interstate the whole way.

We were exhausted. But happy. All of us. So very happy. 

Losing My Kids

This is a hard story to write, and a long one, but bare with me. My kids were put into foster care three times within about 4 years or so. I'm hoping they were young enough that it's just kind of a distant memory and didn't do them lasting harm. I know it was a nightmare that almost killed me.

The first time was in a dinky town in the NC mountains. Sgt, Hubby was 19 months into a Germany/Kosovo tour.  When I tell people I didn't go to Germany I usually say it was because I had a toddler and a newborn and he would be spending most of his time in Kosovo and I did not want to try to single parent in a foreign country.  That's a lie.  I didn't even know he would be going to Kosovo.  I didn't go to Germany because I wanted out of my marriage. 

He was, at the time, a mean drunk, terribly verbally abusive, and a passive-aggressive gaslighter. His nightly habit was to come home -- usually late. Often he'd stay at work past business hours and knock back a few beers. It was his "me" time. Then once he got home he would complain about how the house wasn't clean enough. He'd refuse to eat the dinner I had made him, opting instead for a stack of ham sandwiches and knock back a few more -- average about a half case nightly. Then he'd pick a fight for no reason. Just poke at me. Poke and poke and poke until all resolve to stay calm and not let myself be provoked was worn down and I would LOSE MY SHIT on him. Then he'd call me a crazy, out of control bitch and calmly go to bed (happy now that he had succeeded in proving that *I* was the crazy one) while I would sit in the living room crying so hard it made me nauseous.

When he got orders for Germany, they fucked something up (big surprise the Army fucked something up, yeah?) and we did not receive concurrent travel orders. He had to go ahead without me and wait for housing to open up for us. So I took the boys -- the oldest just barely two and the baby only 6 weeks -- and went to my mom's in a tiny little town outside of Asheville, NC.

After about a month or so of not being constantly insulted and yelled at, I decided I kind of liked it that way and told him I wasn't following.  I didn't tell him I wanted to leave altogether because I needed his paycheck to survive.  I suggested he switch his status to unaccompanied to shorten to tour to two years instead of four and use that time to get his shit together.

During the 19 months between his departure and the boys' departure, life was pretty unstable. We moved several times. When I decided to stay in NC I moved out of my mom's house and into my own little apartment. I spent months doing nothing but caring for the boys and staring at walls. (This was the time period I laid in the bathtub staring down a bottle of percocet wanting so badly to swallow them all, but couldn't bring myself to it knowing there would be nobody to make breakfast for the boys in the morning.)

I knew something had to change. I went to the local social services office and got approved for childcare vouchers. I applied to the community college 45 minutes away in Asheville, did all the financial paperwork and got in-state tuition status so a Pell grant would fully fund my return to school, and registered for classes. Things were going well and I finally felt like maybe I was really a person.

Then a series of unbelievable things happened. I got evicted from that apartment because the neighbor stole my ATM card and drained my account and bounced my rent and bailed on hers -- same landlord -- so he was already pissed off. Moved back in with mom.

On my way into school one morning I slipped on some ice and hurt my knee pretty badly. I could barely walk on it but I still kept going to class. Then the baby got sick.  He was croupy and running a fever so I took him to the local clinic. He had pneumonia and RSV, which in younger babies is often fatal. At the same office visit the doc offered to x-ray my knee -- I'd cracked my patella.

Then the brakes went out on my truck. Sick baby. Broken knee. No transportation. Mom guilt tripping me about leaving the boys in daycare in the first place -- I mean if you're not going to stay home and raise your kids why even have them? I quit school.

The next several months were chaotic. My mom lost HER lease so we found another place to live. She decided she needed to live with me because I needed her help. (She wasn't much help, but she was fairly financially dependant on me.) Then the people renting the house she owned (inherited from my father's parents) moved out so we all moved there and she made me pay rent, while still mostly supporting her.

During this time she was in and out quite a bit. She'd take long trips to Tennessee to see her own ailing mother. And to get away from me. She told me I was a taker -- an emotional drain -- and she couldn't handle living with me. The movie Girl, Interrupted had recently made its big splash and she decided I had borderline personality disorder. My mom loves an armchair diagnosis.

It was while she was in Tennessee that a neighbor reported me to DSS because the toddler was playing outside by himself (we had a really nice yard and it was a lovely, safe neighborhood) and my car -- which was in the shop for clutch repair -- was gone. She thought I'd left the kids alone.

So the DSS lady shows up at my door and obviously I'm there because I answer the door, so the kids hadn't been left alone. She got all motherly on me and asked me how I was really doing. Like an idiot I told her. She used all of it against me and a few days later my kids were in custody.

They came for them just after I'd settled them down for bed.  They brought cops. I screamed and cried and begged while the cops held me back. A pair of social workers carried my barely awake, crying, confused babies out to their waiting car.

It was a long summer. I really, really, REALLY wanted to die. Two things comprised my identity -- being a wife and being a mother. My marriage had failed so there was that gone. And now here was the state telling me my soul remaining reason for existing was a fail. I had no purpose, no identity. I had no job, no friends, no social support system. Because I was the only responsible adult 24/7 I had absolutely no life outside of parenting. I drove really fast without a seatbelt all summer hoping I'd crash and die. I fantasized about driving off of overpasses.

I got to visit the boys weekly. I met often with my court appointed lawyer and jumped through all of their hoops -- parenting classes, therapy, I eventually got a job a Subway just to say I had a job. I'd go to my court hearing every month and same result every time -- I am an unfit mother.

Sgt Hubby came home in August. The judge who'd been presiding over the case went against DSS recommendations and gave the kids back with the agreement that we seek help when we arrived at our next duty station. It still fucking gets me that *I* was the bad parent -- me, the victim of severe emotional abuse. They gave the kids back when the brave hero (abusive alcoholic) who'd come back to take control of the little lady who had obviously lost it.

So we go to next duty station. Fort Fucking Polk, Louisiana. I don't leave him as I'd planned because staying with him was the only way I could keep my kids. Nothing changes. He works long hours to avoid coming home. He either shuts me out or gets drunk and yells at me on a nightly basis. I find out I'm pregnant again and so sick that for a month all I can keep down is lime sherbet and Sprite. The nausea doesn't let up after the first trimester. (It didn't with the boys either. I threw up daily throughout all three pregnancies.)

Still though, I reach out for help. I have an appointment with psyche services before we are even out of temporary housing. I call the parish (Louisiana doesn't have counties and that's just weird) office for child development and try to get my oldest assessed because I know something isn't right. They say the waiting list is months long but they can put the two year old in an early intervention program that meets one morning a week. I take him when I am unsick enough to drive. The oldest is such a behavioral issue that after our first session, he isn't allowed to attend with his brother and I have to leave the baby there by himself.

It's a matter of weeks before DCWS (every state has their own acronym) gets a call -- FROM THE TEACHER AT THE EARLY INTERVENTION PROGRAM WHERE I WENT FOR HELP -- because the four year old had a black eye and a bloody nose (he used to run around with a blanket on his head pretending he was a monster and he ran into the door frame, and his nose used to bleed constantly because he'd pick it) and alleging that I had no demonstrable parenting skills because of the 4 year old's behavior.

We are instructed to take the boys in for a physical exam. I throw a fit because IT CONFLICTS WITH THE FOLLOW UP PSYCHE APPOINTMENT I'D BEEN WAITING MONTHS FOR. The doctor does not find any evidence to conclude physical abuse. Notes that the oldest has a history of nose bleeds already in his medical records. DCWS calls DSS in NC and gets THEIR side of the story.

The boys are taken from us at the hospital. Two MP's have to hold me back because I lunge across the desk at the social worker.

The DCWS lady tells the judge that I'd been told in NC to seek help and had failed to do so (the case was reported by the early intervention lady BECAUSE I ASKED FOR HELP and the lying DCWS bitch had access to the kids' medical records showing that we'd made an appointment with behavioral health before we'd even moved out of temporary housing and KNEW the physical exam conflicted with the follow up). THE FUCK PEOPLE???

We go to the adjudication hearing that's supposed to take place within 24 hours but takes a week because of system backlog. My lawyer recommends I don't take the stand in case I say something that contradicts something I say at a later hearing. (Which would be a thing if I planned on lying, which I didn't.) He knew there'd be a later hearing because, well, if the state wants your kids they'll keep them.

Our first real hearing was supposed to be 30 days but it was more like 3 months because of system  backlog, again. Between the nausea from the pregnancy and the depression from having the boys gone, I was pretty much catatonic unless Sgt Hubby, during the times he was sober and caring, made me get out of the house to go for a drive or take a walk or have a picnic or something. Mostly I slept or stared at walls. We couldn't afford cable and didn't have a TV.

Again we jumped through the hoops. I went to therapy. For some reason HE wasn't required to go to therapy, just me. We went through three different parenting classes. We had weekly supervised visits with the kids. The oldest would have nothing to do with me. (He was angry that I'd abandoned him.) It was noted that I had a cold relationship with my son.

We got the kids back -- again against the recommendation of DCWS -- at the first real hearing because the judge said he didn't see that there was any more help that we could get. But we stayed under their supervision the entire four years we were there. We kept trying to get help through military psyche services. Both boys were diagnosed with garden variety ADHD and put on medication that set them on a daily cycle of zombie/monster -- zombie when it kicked in and monster when it wore off.

We had trouble with the school the entire time. Both boys had behavior issues and were repeatedly disciplined. The state of Lousisana as late as 2006 still condoned corporal punishment. I don't know if they still do or not. I begged to have the boys reassessed but all they would do was affirm a combination of ADHD and bad parenting.

In July of we got news that in September we were moving to Georgia. In the midst of outprocessing, the younger boy had a really bad day. He lost his flipflops (which he was told not to take off) in the car on the way to the outprocessing center. He wass not allowed to go with daddy into the outprocessing center because he had no shoes. I stayed in the car with him. He screamed and raged and kicked. He was not allowed to go with daddy into our next stop -- the bank -- because he was in the middle of a rage fit, causing further rage fit.

Daddy drops us off at home and goes back to work, leaving me with this raging monster -- 99th percentile for height and weight at 5 years old, (he is 6'6" now at 18 with size 18 feet), strong as an ox and wanting to fight.

I do everything I can think of. I try to sit him in a timeout. Nope. I send him to his room for a nap. He throws furniture. (I'm telling you, this was a STRONG child). My very last resort is to spank him. I've run out of options. I get daddy's belt because I'm afraid I will miss or hit too hard or somehow lose control of my hands. I try to hold him down to get a good swat at his butt but he twists just so the belt hits his neck and leaves a big fucking welt.

I call our caseworker immediately to report what happened. I'm in tears. He comes over and assesses things. Helps me calm the kid down and tells me it's gonna be okay. (Not all social workers are evil.)

Of course his teacher reports the mark and the same lying bitch that took them the first time gets the case. Our caseworker begs her not to take them. Tries to explain the situation. She's not having it.

Even though it was just the one who had the mark and the physical exam concluded no evidence of any other physical abuse, all three kids are removed. I don't fight this time. I know there's no point. I double over, sobbing, aching, empty as hell, sick to my stomach.

We get in the car and drive so far we end up miles into Texas. We drive until after midnight. We find an open Dairy Queen, get ice cream cones, and head back home.

It's another week until our 24 hour hearing. I spend the entire week crying and don't get out of bed. This time I don't follow the advice of THE SAME DAMN COURT APPOINTED LAWYER and insist I take the stand. We leave court with the kids. The judge -- the same judge as before -- was an old southern boy who knew about being taken behind the woodshed and he believed my story.

So we move to Georgia. To the big city. I mean, they have a Target and ethnic food and an actual downtown and multiple grocery stores that aren't WalMart. Both boys are noted as behavioral problems within the first days of starting their new school. The school psychologist, who hasn't actually met the child, thinks my 2nd grader fits the profile for Autism.

We immediately seek out civilian psyche services. The psychiatrist arranges comprehensive testing. We find out just weeks before his 9th birthday that he is way up on the spectrum. Eventually all three kids end up with a diagnosis. The oldest, Autism. The other two severe ADHD and Intermittent Explosive Disorder. (The 5 year old who threw that fit ended up breaking my knee during another violent tantrum when he was 15.)

DFAS (more acronyms) is involved on and off for most of the next 8 years.

I found out later that ASD families are almost always involved with child services at some point and having undiagnosed kids put in custody isn't uncommon. If your family doesn't look right -- if your kids don't act right -- something must be wrong, and if you don't have that doctor's note, you MUST be what's wrong.

So, I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids. I know what it feels like to be separated from my kids while I am doing everything I can to advocate for them and give them the best life possible. Which is what these parents seeking asylum are doing -- they're coming here to find safety and give their kids a shot at life.

I got to see my kids. I knew they were safe. I knew I would get them back. I still wanted to die. It was often a hard fight not to give in. I can only imagine how much worse it is for these parents having their kids ripped away at the border, not knowing where they are, or if they're safe, or if they will ever even see them again. And my heart is breaking for them.

I know this was a long, hard read. Thank you for sticking with it. And fight like hell to stop this atrocity. Families belong together.

Checking In

Hey Y'all

I know it's been forever since I posted -- almost a month. And I have so many thoughts rolling around in my head that I would like to write about. I am working on getting a laptop. I think my priority should, however, be telling the landlord about the dog and paying the pet deposit because the hot water heater is broken so we can't shower and I don't want to chance the maintenance guy tattling about the dog.

(We do have a Y membership and we ARE getting bathed, just so you know, if you were worried.)

I have this new job that is keeping me far too busy at work to blog. I am loving this new job. I doubt I will ever get fired for talking shit about my boss in my blog because I really, really like her. And no, I'm not cheesing because she doesn't know about my blog. (And I would like to keep it that way, but just in case, nice non-word-murdering-lady, I will never talk shit about you in my blog because I've no need to!)

I don't think I've ever worked anywhere before that didn't have a toxic work environment. There's always been competition, personal drama, general stress, sniping, back stabbing, under-bus-throwing, snarky criticism, that one person everyone trashes behind their back -- there's none of that here. We have a pretty high level of cultural and political diversity but it doesn't seem to cause tension. There's one dude who is a staunch Trump supporter who tries to bait me but I don't let him. Otherwise, nobody discusses politics because that's just not work appropriate chatter.

We all seem to share family as a priority, and the ability to leave work at work. On one particularly busy day when it would have benefitted work production had I skipped or shortened lunch, my boss told me that I should go ahead and take my full hour since that lunch hour is the only time I get to spend with Grumpy during the week. Family comes first. This business isn't life or death and it's all gonna get done eventually.

How often do you find a boss like that?

Yesterday officially marked my first month. I'm counting down the next five until I am officially on the company payroll and off the agency payroll. I'm pretty sure this is going to be my big girl job.

Also, I am really enjoying aqua fitness classes and am thinking about becoming an instructor because how awsome would it be to be a professional mermaid?

Yeah, so aqua aerobics tonight. I'm off the company clock but on the company computer and it is time for me to run away home.

Have a good night!

Maybe I will check in like this after work more often.

Some Thoughts On Parkland

I'd had a lovely Valentine's lunch with Grumpy. We were in our favorite Kroger, having picked up prescriptions and wine, and standing in line to get a burrito for the girl child when I saw the footage on the cafe television. Another school shooting. That's all I could think. Another school shooting. They're happening so often that I'm getting numb to them.

Grumpy and I discussed it on our way home. We share the same ideas on the public sale of military grade weaponry. He, as a retired member of the military, and I, as a mother and all-round rational human being, think they have no place in civilian society. But that isn't what I want to write about.

I told him that I couldn't spend too much of my energy grieving for these families. If I threw myself into the whole cycle of grief every time there's a mass shooting on the news, I said, I'd never be able to come up for air. I can't be an effective part of the solution if I don't practice good self-care.

Then, while my pastor was talking about the shooting last weekend in church, and conducting a ritual that she initially created as a way to commemorate victims of another school shooting a few years back, she remarked that she'd had to draw upon this ritual too many times. The ritual involves placing rocks -- one for each victim -- in a bowl of salty water that represents tears. She said that her collection of rocks was piling up too high. It was impactful, but as congregants formed a line to walk to the podium and participate, my mind kind of drifted off in other directions -- the new job starting the next day, the origami cranes strung on delicate threads and draped in front of the windows where they softly danced in the draft, what I would eat for lunch after church, what I would pack for lunch for work the next day, and really, how was work the next day going to go?

A few weeks ago, Live From Here (the show formerly known as Prairie Home Companion) featured a reading by novelist George Saunders of an excerpt from his book, Lincoln In The Bardo. In this excerpt, President Lincoln sat in the crypt of his son, newly dead from typhoid, processing his grief and thinking at the same time about the memorials being held for the fallen Union soldiers. He talked about those in the crowd -- himself included -- who harbored a secret happiness that they, themselves, had not had to experience the same loss. And now he was no longer in that group. He had now suffered the loss of a child.

I am one of the parents that secretly harbors the happiness that I am not among those that have suffered the loss of a child. I have the privilege of allowing my mind to drift during a memorial service because I am not in the grip of violent grief.  The chances of my daughter's school being the next mass shooting news story are slim to none. But then again, before [I will not dignify him with a name] opened fire, so was Douglas High in Parkland, Fl -- rated one of the safest places to live.

_____________________

I started writing this piece last week but got cut off before I could finish because the library closed. So much has happened this week that has tweaked the perspective I held a week ago. Last week I was writing with the belief that school shootings are just part of the new dystopian reality we live in and there is nothing to be done but sit back and watch and try to keep your own soul intact.

Boy was I wrong. Shit. Is. Going. Down.

I am in awe of the sheer badassery of the Parkland survivors. The voices of these children are leading a revolution that we complacent adults had come to believe impossible. Watching and listening these kids, I know in my heart I am looking at the future of political leadership, and the future of political leadership looks good. The kids are going to be all right. Emma Gonzales is my new hero.

My daughter shared something she wrote with me this week that puts her also on my shortlist of heroes. I share it here with her permission:

_____________________

I stand here on this ground in a mix of pride, anger, and disgust.

Anger is what gave me the ability to stand here in jeans and a T-shirt.

Pride is what gave me the chance to stand up for myself and fight.

And disgust. Disgust is why I’m here.

I stand for those who cannot stand for themselves.

The gays. The trans. The people of color. The women and the men and everything in between who fought for our rights and died for us. You wave that flag like it is your birthright and whine about immigrants in our great country yet do not acknowledge the people who have died in our claim of this land.

I shouldn't have to hear stories of women being terrified of walking home alone at night. I shouldn't see women on the street tense and clutching their keys in her hand like it's a weapon when I'm out with my dad.

I should not have to see one gender so terrified to be alone at night because of the other gender.

‘Not all men’ is a ridiculous statement. If not all men, why are you making it about all men? You claim to support women yet still say she was asking for it when a woman is raped. When she's killed. When she dies because her body couldn't handle a baby and nobody would let her have an abortion.

‘Straight pride’ is also ridiculous. You whine and complain about ‘the gays’ having an entire month to themselves but refuse to acknowledge that Life is just a ‘straight pride’ in and of itself. You do not have to be scared of holding your partner's hand in public. You do not have to be scared of your basic human rights being ripped away from you over something so trivial as what gender you like.

I like to imagine people in different categories.

First you have the entitled, the straight white people who cry about their rights ‘being taken away’ when they have to hide their bigotry about other people's rights.

Then there's the helpfuls, the straight white people who do everything in their power to help the minorities in every way they can. I would like to personally categorize my own mother into this particular trope as she is the woman who made feminism such a staple in my life I never realized it wasn't as massively supported as I thought it was until I was fourteen.

Then there's the people of color, the ones who try to stand for themselves and get shot down, often quite literally. I don't like reading about a black man who was gunned down by police for being ‘hostile’ when all he wanted was help with a flat tire.

The LGBTQ+ community as a whole. I have only seen one website that wasn't specifically about gay people that was so accepting of the LGBT to the point of where- after hours and hours and hours looking through posts on that site I was never, ever, able to find a single homophobic or transphobic post. I bring to you: Tumblr. I am astonished by how welcoming that website is and how quick they are to educate and correct someone's bigotry. It makes me proud to be one of the many who use that site.

The massacre of the Florida Shooting has affected students everywhere and while I may not be around to participate in the National School Walkout on March 24th, I will do everything in my power to support it and spread the word. 17 people, maybe even more, lost their lives that day. Students, kids, just like me, died because of one group’s ignorance and refusal to restrict gun laws. Your ignorance and bigotry means nothing to me, you fascist bastards. I will make you learn. I will make you pay.

I refuse to be walked on. I refuse to be a toy. I refuse to stand by and watch as you take away my rights and use others like me like they’re nothing but puppets. I refuse to let you destroy me and all those around me for your own gain. I will not set myself on fire to keep you warm.

I will stand for my mother. My father. My brothers and my friends and their friends too. I will stand for those who cannot do so themselves and if you dare challenge my pride, you may come at me with all you wish.

For I am a woman, and women are fiercer than men could ever hope to be.

_______________________

Like I said, the kids are going to be alright.

Just Very Quickly

I had my job interview on Monday at the small industrial company. I was pleased with the general office vibe -- laid back and drama free. I sat down with the GM and the office manager. We seemed to have good chemistry. They outlined the general workings of the company and laid out in fine detail the tasks that would be expected of me -- lots of information management, data entry, basic office stuff, and a heavy emphasis on customer service. My resume is almost tailor made to match that list of tasks.

On my part, I think I charmed them -- at least I made them laugh a few times. I tried to communicate that I am an extroverted mega-nerd with a major girl-boner for Excel. Putting information into neat little ordered boxes makes me far happier than it should. I am detail oriented, work well both independently and with a team, take instruction and correction well, am not a control freak, am a problem solver, and that I have received praise from previous employers on my conflict avoidance skills. I stressed that my favorite part of administrative work, hands down, is customer service. (Hub is reading this over my shoulder and questions the not a control freak bit -- but work me and home me are two entirely different people.)

Upon leaving, the office manager told me that my agency had highly recommended me and that she could see why.

Tuesday morning I got a call from my agency that the company would love to have me come be a member of their team.

Screw that other federal agency and their tentative offer for higher pay. They don't know me from Adam. They don't care who I am or that I'm quirky and people-oriented. This place cares that I came highly recommended from an agency that I have been working with for the past year and a half, and they would LOVE to have me come be on their team because they LIKE me! ME! I was chosen for a position for MY personal skill set and winning personality.

So, I avoid downtown rush hour traffic, I'm not stuck in a cubicle, shuffling paper and devoid of human contact, and I am specifically wanted for exactly who I am. This is totally worth taking a $1.86/hour cut in pay. And it is still considerably more than I was making at Great Big Corporate.

I start tomorrow. I already have my first-day outfit picked out.

(BTW -- heard from my old manager at GBC. It has turned into a complete shit show and everyone there that I like, including my manager, is looking for other work. Screw that place.)

Another kind of plus is that the library is on my route home from this job so I can pop in and update more often, unless, you know, I can stealth blog at work. Expect to be hearing from me more often. I have major mom-of-teen shit I need to unload.

Big Stuff

And you thought the last post was a long time coming...

Quick catch up. My surgery was delayed by two weeks because the doctor's office waited until the week before surgery to get approval from my insurance and Tricare just doesn't move that fast. Ever. So I wasn't in the hospital over Christmas. We still had a super low-key holiday. We went for a drive in the snow and made soup. New Years Eve I was asleep way before the ball dropped and the next day we went for a drive and made soup. I went under the knife on January 5th. I woke up in pain but dilaudid is a lovely drug. I made friends with one of the nursing assistants who schooled my daughter on tauntauns after I made note of feeling as though I'd been sliced open in same fashion. (Seriously -- incision from breast bone to belly button requiring 35 staples resulting in a scar that looks absurdly like a zipper.)

I spent my recuperation binging various series via streaming services. (Not blogging, as previously suggested, as the girl child managed to break the laptop.) I did Grimm (falls in line with my obsession with all things Thile). I did Preacher. Well, I did season 1 because that is free on hulu. Season 2 is only on Amazon and even with Prime they want $25 for the season and that's not gonna happen. Hunted around a bit for the next binge-worthy series. Tried out a few. The Night Manager has too much realistic political violence. I just can't right now. I was told that I would love Portlandia but I couldn't even get through episode one. I guess I just don't do sketch stuff? SNL has even lost my attention lately. I tried that biopic series about Zelda Fitzgerald but the put-on Southern Belle accents were intolerable and I couldn't finish the first episode. I landed on Nurse Jackie. I find her combination of being deeply flawed whilst having a passion to do good comfortingly familiar. Last night I fell asleep watching that and my wine glass toppled from my lap and spilled all over the bed. I have no idea why I was holding my wine glass on my lap.

The whole wine thing probably would not have gone down thusly had my husband not taken a new position at his job. This new position has a most ridiculous schedule -- he works from 4:30 in the afternoon to 1:00 in the morning so I'm left to binge in the evenings all by my lonesome. This lifestyle will eventually turn me into a potato.

Recuperating has been harder than I thought it would be so I'm just now resuming the job hunt, which is where I hit a bit of a dilemma. I have a job interview on Monday at a small family-owned company. It is an office assistant position with a heavy customer service emphasis. I'm a people person and customer service is definitely my forte. It is located near to my house so no interstates involved in my commute and also pays considerably more than did the contracting position with corporate overlords.

I've also had a tentative offer from the same federal agency that employs my spouse (although without the ridiculous schedule -- I'd simply not be able to function that way). The fed job pays more and isn't through a temp agency so it's more secure, but it would likely be mind-numbingly boring -- just shuffling the same papers on constant repeat without much human interaction. I'm afraid it would permanently mar my soul. Also, it would require I drive through downtown interstate traffic twice a day during rush hour, which frightens me to my core.

So what do? Take the job that I think I would find more rewarding even though it pays less and comes with little to no job security or take the money and security and risk damage to my eternal soul? I just don't know. Maybe it wouldn't be a numbing as I think it will be. It would at the least get me into the federal system and make it easier to get a job I actually want. (I have my eye on an administrative position at the VA.)

Adulting is hard.

Damn But It's Been A Minute

It's been a month since I've written. There have been developments.

First off, tomorrow is my last day at Music Hall and though it has been physically exhausting, getting to work behind the scenes of the symphony has been extremely rewarding. Henceforth, any symphony, pops, opera, youth symphony, or ballet performance I attend is likely to feature music that I have actually held in my hands and that's a mighty big thought.

Also, there have been developments from former job and Huge Corporation. My manager (who was not my supervisor, the Word Murder) has been keeping me up to date on office drama.  The WM has officially LEFT THE BUILDING! She was shuffled of to another site where she is not in charge of managing other people and has very little contact with the public, which is for the best. The president of the contracting firm that I worked for (it is a very complex food chain) is filling in as supervisor in my former office and, if Manager is correct, the corporate overlords may be choosing the next supervisor, as the contractor has, at least in their eyes, thus far displayed a lack of good judgement in hiring managers. If the new permanent supervisor/room manager is who she thinks it will be, she would be a terrific choice. 

Also, the department I helped administrate has absolutely gone to shit in my absence. The hens were put in charge of my duties with no real training. Even if there had been attempts to train them, the job requires a level of technological skills (Excel for instance) that they cannot seem to wrap their hopelessly analog heads around, and a certain savvy in dealing with millenials that they will never, ever have. (Seriously, wrangling mommies into completing tasks required for the thing they signed up to do takes some real finesse -- you gotta be bossy without being bitchy.)

The corporate overlords directly in charge of my department, along with my manager (who is also contractor) are appealing to the BIG corporate overlord, who is in charge of all of the departments similar to mine, to request the contractor that I be brought back on board as the lack of my presence seems to be the reason for everything going to shit. (They really seemed to like me while I was there and often told me what a good job I was doing. I understand from Manager that they were quite distraught by the news of my abrupt departure.)

I am a week and a day from my stomach surgery -- the one that, ironically, I planned around the holiday so as not to disrupt the schedule of Huge Corporation. I should be recovered enough by the date they are scheduled to return from the holiday break to resume work, if Contractor decides she would like to have me back. I would be willing now that Word Murder is gone. Jesus I hated that woman. (Always respectful, compliant, and blah blah blah good employee, but I HATED that woman!)

If not, I am sure my agency will be able to find me something.  I'm just so tired of the endless string of short-term assignments. One of the reasons for my moving north was to find my Big Girl Job and actually launch a career. I really thought I was headed that direction at Huge Corporation. Temping is NOT a career.

In the meantime, I'm enjoying my new Twitter account, listening to lots of good music, trying to adjust to PHC being The Show Formerly Known As Prairie Home, watching the sex-crimes dominoes fall (Mario Batalli??? Really????). and trying have enough faith in Mueller and humanity in general to keep me from total despair over impending Armageddon at the hands of an orange buffoon.

That, and upping my smoothie game.

Maybe with all the excess down time I will find more time to blog.

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.