Oneness. Please.

Yesterday, I posted a video on Facebook. It was one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen. And strap in, because I feel like we have a lot to unpack. Here's the link to the video if you're so inclined:

Christian Nationalist Decree

I've had a day or so to think about what more I want to say about this. I know for a fact that people I respect and love are upset (to some degree or other) by posts like this because they truly believe somehow I'm saying something anti-Christian, or trying to convince people that all Christians are bigots.

No.

I am a Christian. Jesus is just alright with me, I need him in my life, and I call on him every day for help and solace, and to put in a good word for me with his Father. I also call on J's Mother. And his partner, in teaching and in life, Mary the Magdalene. And the Archangel Michael for protection. And the Archangel Raphael for health and wellness. I could go on and on. If it weren't for Saint Anthony, I'd never find my phone or my keys. If it weren't for Saint Jude, I'd believe there's no hope when all seems to be lost, but because of Saint Jude (my granddad was very into him), when the shit hits the fan, I turn to him, because I remember how Papa did.

But ladies and gentlemen, that's ME. That's just little old nobody me. That's MY faith. And not for one single second do I think it needs to be yours. 

For you, it could be....it could be anything else, or nothing at all. It could be Kwan Yin (I do love her). It could be the Buddha. It could be Krishna. It could be what you'd rather refer to as Allah, with Mohammed as his prophet. It could be the Great Spirit that the Indigenous People revered and loved and in whom they lived and moved and had their being. It could be the Great Goddess and all her legions of helpers. It could be the nature spirits of the forests. It could be any number of ascended masters, avatars, angels, saints. It could be your great-aunt, your grandmother, the person who used to cut your hair and hear all your joys and woes and highs and lows. It could be your fifth grade teacher, smiling down on you from above the way she smiled on you in her classroom and made you feel seen and loved and so so smart. It could be what you feel like is your higher self. Or it could be any moment that there's love and joy and kindness in your heart that makes you feel like there's something so good in existence that you just can't quite describe it in words. It could be sunlight rippling on water. It could be that you believe in none of the above, and choose to live your life according to what you know to be right and kind and good and loving. (PLEASE feel free to describe what it is for you in the comments, and feel free to tell me if it's absolutely nothing, because it all counts, it's all valid...and it's not just me who says so...a quick glance at the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution backs me up on this.)

But the biggest thing I want to say is, if you look at that paragraph above, and add in your Jesus, your Marys, your Yahweh, your Jehovah, your Father/Son/Holy Spirit....here it comes, my heresy, my blasphemy:

They are all the same thing. THEY ARE ALL THE EXACT SAME THING.

The blindness, the hell on earth that we've come to know, comes from any insane, tiny-minded notion that there's a damn bit of difference between my God the Father and your Great Spirit or your Great Aunt. And the most frustrating part of it all is, THAT is what's at the core of all systems of faith, Oneness. Oneness. Oneness.

Oneness, for fuck's sake! ONENESS!

The video I posted says things that oppose oneness. They insist on a single version of truth and beauty and love and righteousness, and to hell with anyone who does not subscribe. I submit the following exhibits pulled from the video referenced above.

 

I have questions. What's the Great Commission? And what makes you a Watchman? What are your rights and powers as a Watchman? I don't believe I've ever had opportunity to vote for a Watchman, or a Great Commission. (Makes worried, skeptical face.) Next:

You are? Says who? And as churches are not required to even pay taxes (kind of like super rich people), I'm not sure this is valid. And it's all the earth now, is it?  Quite bold. Moving on:

Well, these feel a little hard to verify. I'd like it in writing. Preferably notarized. And then they wrote:

Anyone have Margaret Atwood on speed dial? Our judicial system should be biblical? I learned on an especially poignant episode of The West Wing that, according to the Bible, if you plant different crops side by side, the penalty is death by stoning. If I were a farmer, I'd get a good helmet. Next:

Ah this is a fine one. When the alt-right refer to the sin of "wokeness," it usually means their general disdain for anything with a whiff of "hey, let's make sure People of Color and LGBTQ+ people in our nation get to have all the same civil rights and humane treatment under the law as the rest of us." Was "wokeness" specifically banned by the framers of the Constitution? I'm not sure how I could have missed it.  As for the occult, if you can't find me, I'm in a safehouse with my collection of crystals, tarot decks, pendulums, and Beatles albums. Onward:

WTF are the "Seven Mountains," you ask? They apparently stand for family, religion, education, the media, entertainment, business, and government. So by their decree, this group intends to permanently control these proverbial mountains by divine right. It's so funny how I've read the Constitution and I just can't remember a reference to these dadgum mountains. Don't google this stuff right before bed. Let's see what more good news they have for us:

Whoa Nelly. Well, this is a tough one. The blood of Jesus was spilled by his political and religious fanatic opponents (why does that sound so familiar) all the way up and on top of Golgotha. It certainly covered a good portion of that piece of land. But I've read a little about the teacher from Nazareth, and the very idea of his torture and murder by conquering tyrants and religious leaders who felt threatened by his influence making us Americans special and "separate" as a nation seems just a leeeeeetle antithetical to what the fellow was all about. Very off-brand. His teaching was straight up on the subject: "Are you a sinner? A leper? A tax collector? A foreigner? A prostitute? An unclean woman in the middle of her period who the elders say should be socked away in a dark room? Come sit by me." So please. Just please, with this garbage.

 

 

Well...these two are tricky. First of all, that confounded first amendment separating church and state...is it possible that these people are so horny over the second amendment that they overlook the first? I'm just looking for answers here, I'm a problem solver. Moreover, is it Judeo-Christian values we're talking about here? Because I'm no Muslim, but I know a few, and they'd claim that particular "one true god" as their own just as hard as we Christians and Jews do. Read their book, it starts with a Q, easy to remember. Furthermore, it brings us back to that pesky judicial problem again. Jews celebrate the Sabbath starting sundown on Friday through sundown on Saturday, Christians don't get theirs until Sunday. So what days can we work without getting the death penalty? These are important questions, people!

There's more unpacking of this fucking mess that I could attempt, but I'm exhausted, and I expect you are too. 

All I can think of to add is that there's a pretty big difference between being (1) "anti-Christian" and (2) "anti-Christian theocracy."  Number (1) is bigotry. Number (2) is patriotism and human decency. And if freedom in that "shining city upon a hill" is what we all yearn for, for ALL people (because we are NOT there yet), we need to know the difference. 

So, what the hell, how about just love one another. Even the terrifying zealot bigots who want to rule the world. (I didn't say "excuse" them...just try and send love to them...it can't hurt...)  And thereby maybe we'll make it another few centuries and take the poor, the marginalized, the disenfranchised along with the rest of us this time around.

All my love,

Yours In Blasphemy,

TMS

RvW

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I had a boyfriend. Actually, no, according to him, he was not my boyfriend, I was not his girlfriend, and he would never love me with a capital L, but he'd be willing to keep me around if I helped him with home improvement projects.

Why did I sign up for this and let him reel me in, hook, line, and sinker? I was eighteen and in love. Eighteen-year-old females in love are, in a few words, and I'm trying to be kind here...stupid as fuck.

He was nine years older than me, and I had a crush on him. He had no business entertaining that crush, but he was emotionally stunted, and so to my elation (at the time), he did entertain said crush. And there was a LOT of entertainment going on, if you know what I mean. Completely consensual entertainment, make no mistake. It was a good relationship that way. I mean, REALLY good. 

Unfortunately, the good didn't really go much beyond the bedroom (or wherever...back deck, front yard, kitchen counter, outdoor gazebo, suspended from ceiling beams in the den in a fairly impressive feat of engineering but I digress). 

I had some kinds of maturity when I was eighteen. I was smart, well-read, starting at a fancy schmancy college, high achieving...but when it came to my emotional stuff, and mental health, and self-esteem, that was all in the crapper. I didn't see a lot of value in myself, and didn't expect anyone else to see any either. In fact, when "not-your-boyfriend" (we'll just call him NYB from here on in) liked to remind me of my worth, NYB would quote from my very favorite Shakespeare play, and tell me, 

"Sell while you can, you are not for all markets." (As You Like It, Act III, Scene v)

NYB thought that was very funny. 

Speaking of funny, here's another one of his "jokes." NYB used to tell me, often, about how it would go if I were to accidentally become pregnant. "You'll pay for an abortion for yourself, because I can just wipe it off my thighs and get on with my life, or I'll throw you down a flight of stairs and get it done that way." Isn't that hilarious? I think I would actually giggle...I'd be going for coy but achieving, at best, nervous. Because guess what. I believed him. 

So I was very careful. And very lucky. I was always the one of the two of us who had to hit the pause button to make sure we were safe. I always made sure. Of course, no matter how sure you are, there can be an oopsie-daisy, but like I said, I lucked out. I would have had a hard time coming up with the funds for the procedure as a student, would not have been able to tell my parents EVER, and didn't have a lot of good faith in the throw-me-down-the-stairs method.

What's the point of this, quite frankly, bummer of a story? I'm not sure how to say it right, but I'll try.

I was in this tenuous position when the overturning of Roe v. Wade wasn't yet a gleam in the eye of SCOTUS. Oh, many would have liked it to happen, but it wasn't an immediate threat then. The court had yet to be stocked with just the right number of fundamentalist psychopaths who care about babies' lives just about the same way most of us care about the lives of flesh eating bacteria. The "throw me down the stairs and see what happens" method would have been the one most likely used on me in the event of an accidental pregnancy, had there been no other options. 

It makes me wonder how many eighteen-year-old girls who don't yet know their infinite worth as human beings will get fucked by their abusers, then thrown down the stairs.

Sorry to be so ineloquent. 

Actually, I am not fucking sorry. I'm grateful to be alive, and to now have children of my own, planned and wanted and nourished and cherished from the depths of my soul, because I wasn't ever thrown down the stairs by a cheap megalomaniac who didn't like complications in his high-and-mighty life. 

I ended up dumping NYB after seven full years of being in his thrall. What happened? I grew up. It was that simple. I started seeing a therapist, got a first-time look at what I'd allowed to happen to me, the blinders fell off, and that was that. That growing up I did--that was a problem for him. I realized after tons and tons of healing and self-examination that I'd been sleeping with a man who didn't know how to have a relationship with an adult. When I became one, in my head as well as my chronological age, I said "buh-bye, don't ever darken my doorstep again." He could NOT believe it. The unmitigated gall! Oh the songs and dances, the sturm und drang that followed...suffice it to say, I'd taken away one of his favorite playthings, and he did not go gently...and all of THAT can be a story (tome) for another day.

For today, I'll just say this: Because I was lucky, I didn't have to choose between an abortion and being thrown down the stairs. But if I'd been unlucky, at least I'd have had the choice. I'd have scraped up the money, lied and said I needed it for textbooks, taken a page from Baby's scam in Dirty Dancing, somehow I'd have gotten the cash. But more to the point, lots of girls still fall in with their own NYBs, become playthings to narcissistic man-children before they've grown into their understanding of how precious they are. And now, a lot of them won't make it to the other side of that creaky, rocking, splintering bridge.

So in closing, congratulations SCOTUS. If it had been up to you in the late 80s, I might have been dead by now. I made it, barely. Now, many won't.

Undeservedly Underserved

The quest to get my autistic, nonverbal, pathologically sensory defensive child’s diseased teeth taken care of so he can be out of mind-reeling pain and safe from dangerous infection? Have we discussed this? It's been one clusterfuck after another and I can't remember where I left off. I’ll skip over the whole debacle back in the fall when we drove him an hour to Valhalla, NY, to their special needs dental clinic associated with Westchester Children’s Hospital.. Yes, we got our 6 foot 5, 310 lb gentle giant to fight past his monstrous fear of all places unfamiliar, especially medical, and sit in front of their dentist without trying to leave through the nearest window. Then we got said dentist to sign off on the fact that, yep, this child needs dentistry under general anesthesia and he seems to have a painful infection, so let’s get to it. Got him all set up for scheduling, paperwork and paperwork and paperwork, did a load of pre-op, then got told the surgeon in charge has decided to no longer take insurance for his services. Apparently, this particular practitioner is only available for special needs families who own yachts. But that’s in the past, we’ll let that go.  Better for my blood pressure. In the meantime, grab a cup of coffee and put your feet up. And if you don’t like cussing, maybe skip the rest of this.
 
The special needs clinic at Rose F. Kennedy Children’s Hospital in the Bronx (associated with Montefiore and Albert Einstein Hospitals) was our next stop, because a few weeks ago, a very nasty, golf-ball size abscess erupted near Calvin’s lower left canine tooth, and there was plenty of fever to boot. The staff there were great, they were even able to peek into his mouth a little. And he sat voluntarily in the chair under all those lights!!!!!  Holy smokes!!! But turns out they can't treat him at their facility because of his size. I don't entirely understand, but it's something about the safety of his breathing being ok while they do the procedure in their setting. They do IV sedation, and for a guy who's maybe 180-200 lbs and average height, what they do there is safe and fine. But Calvin is way bigger than that, and his neck is big, and he won't be easy and cooperative, so that place is a no go because they worry about his breathing. At some point I want to understand better what the anesthesia difference is, but it’s been too overwhelming to grasp so far. I guess it's not a traditional OR setting and that’s why it won’t be safe enough. And of course that’s all we needed to hear. We need it to be safe enough, full stop. So what’s next?
 
The fine professionals at Rose F. Kennedy referred us to another Montefiore dental clinic in the Bronx, promised we’d hear from this other office within a day, and indeed we did.  They set us up to come in within just a few days after our first trip to the Bronx.. The surgeon I spoke to told us to make sure he was fasting, because the plan was to get the problem tooth/teeth dealt with, then put him on the 6 month wait list for a whole dental workup where they do a full cleaning and scaling and anything else that needed to be done—which is what we would have been able to get done in Valhalla if that whole deal hadn’t gone South like Sherman.
 
So this past Friday, we got to the clinic on Kossuth Ave in the Bronx. This neighborhood is like Montifiore Central. Moses Hospital, Albert Einstein, the children’s hospitals, tons of medical offices, all Montefiore. So we get ourselves into a parking structure that's fairly close, traffic and getting around was predictably nightmarish, but fine, whatever, and we gave our boy a nice little walk around the Bronx (he did great, although it was fucking freezing), then finally got him up to the office for his appointment.  He waited on a line outside the office with us like a champ, not a peep out of him, no trying to escape. The staff makes sure to confirm he's been fasting (they should have been able to tell by the way he was looking at everybody like he was hallucinating them as a hamburger or hot dog like in the Bugs Bunny desert island cartoon), They got us into an examining room, he sat in the chair, nice as you please. A couple of oral surgeons do a great job tag teaming, each gently poking around in there and peering with flashlights and they can get the general idea that the molar right behind the left canine on the bottom is a problem (but may be saveable)  and probably caused the abscess. One doc was able to feel the top right side and could tell that tooth is a goner (that was the one that was  flaring up back in the fall when we started this whole nightmare scavenger hunt). 
 
So there’s our boy, heroically letting these people work with him, calmer than Mike or I felt, and I'm so proud of him, can’t even tell you. Then Nurse Judy came in, and she started raising concerns about whether they can get this done, though, because the general dentistry and the oral surgeons have to coordinate, and then the head honcho surgeon came in to evaluate, and before we knew it they were telling us there's no way they're rolling him into the OR and doing this today. After we were told we were coming in for a procedure. After we'd been making him fast all fucking day. It's like noon now. And we're now on our third 120-mile round trip excursion in our quest to get our child medical care he desperately needs and we’re still nowhere.. 
 
Mike got upset. REASONABLY upset. We both did. He started giving the head honcho doc a bit of an earful about the runaround we were getting, and he was absolutely right. I could see both points of view…head honcho didn’t want to wheel him into surgery without any pre-op work done if it wasn’t a life or death emergency, BUT, we should have been told that before we starved our kid and packed goddamn luggage because we’d also been told that maybe he’d need to be admitted depending on how things went. Was it that young docs made promises that old doc would not approve? Something was truly and rightly fucked.  I tried to keep everybody calm because I hate confrontation and I need to get over it. They keep reassuring us that they'll get him set up, pre-opped, in for his procedure asap, and they'll take great care of him. Which I'm sure they will. But wait, there's more.
 
I mentioned the area we were in is like a Montefiore Disney World, yes? So they told us, ok, you're scheduled for next Friday, 3/11, and here's what you do now (this is after they're all texting and emailing other segments of this machine to set this up). Go to 2400 Bainbridge Ave for an anesthesia consult, an ekg, and bloodwork. I informed them there's no way he'll allow an ekg, and they're like, ok, we get it, but we'll get the other stuff done. Great. Also great is that, like I mentioned, we were advised before we began this happy Friday adventure that Cal could possibly have to be admitted, so we had luggage, with tablets, and chargers, and toys to distract and soothe him. So there we are, trudging up and down blocks, freezing our asses off as I try to coax my phone to tell me where the fuck I’m supposed to go in a neighborhood I’d ne’er before even set foot in, while Mike and I flank and hold on to our giant son in case he decides to suddenly fake right, then bolt left to hijack a falafel truck, which I wouldn’t have blamed him for one little bit..
 
So we got to the address the nice doctor gave us, I guess it was the Moses main campus entrance, I don’t know, and it was like Grand Central station in there, we were screaming in masks to be heard, filling out covid forms, explaining why we're there, the people at the desk argued back and forth about where we were supposed to go for the lab and pre-op and anesthesia consult. We got sent to the wrong floor. We got sent to another floor where they told us, um, he's 16, he can't have this done here, it has to be at the children's hospital across the street at 3415 Bainbridge. So we're like, are you sure, because we literally just got handed a piece of paper from the referring doctor after he's emailed and texted and phoned the world about where to send us. Nope. Across the street with you.
 
Ok. Cal was getting hungry now (if you could have seen how he looked at that falafel truck), and while still totally cooperating with this fucking stupid death march around the Bronx, we could tell we might not be too far from a meltdown. But we got across the street, we got sent to the right floor, we did the bloodwork. Ah, the bloodwork. Two tiny phlebotomists, Mike, and me. Ever try to do bloodwork on the Incredible Hulk when the Incredible Hulk is in no mood for such shenanigans?  The tiny women were thankfully great at their part of the job, and Mike and I just sort of heaved our bodies over his in the blood chair and held him as best we could and somehow they got it done. And THIS time, I did not have to go to the ER because I kept my sternum away from his elbow. Fool me once…
 
Now for the anesthesia consult. Same building, the children’s hospital. MIght have even been the same floor, I forget. Beautiful anesthesiologist PA gives us a great consult, explains things, Cal let her listen to his heart. She showed us where he'll go for surgery and recovery, yippee skippy, we're done. Except, and this is fun news, we have to get him Covid swabbed on Tuesday (tomorrow) when we take him to the pediatrician for a pre-op consult (again...this may be the third one at this point, I don't even fucking know).
 
One more special detail, this is important because of a paragraph coming up fairly soon. One of the oral surgeons prescribed another course of antibiotics (Cal had finished the one he took when the golf-ball-sized abscess blew up in his mouth a couple weeks before) to make sure things don't go all sideways again. He made it a larger dose, cuz he’s a big kid and we want to be sure nothing festers. 
 
So that was it for Friday, home again home again, jiggedy jig, what a great day. Got the boy started on the new higher dose of amoxicillin, and called it a day. I might have drank all the vodka that evening, I don’t remember. 
 
Then we arrived at Saturday morning to find that Calvin was running a low-grade temp and seemed a little listless and not himself and then suddenly vomited an ocean of vomit all over the living room. We may need to throw out the couch. I’m pretty sure we should. He (blessedly) never pukes, and he doesn't know WTF is happening, so all we could do was get him safely finished up where he was, clean him up, etc.  I quickly spiralled into a full-blown anxiety attack in my head over whether he was in some severe infection mode, or having an allergic reaction to the antibiotic, or what. I was scared off my ass that something really bad was happening. But once he was all puked out and cleaned up, he didn't seem to be in any danger. Spoke to his pediatrician on call and she recommended reducing the dosage of the antibiotic to what it had been before, especially since it's prophylactic and he doesn't seem to have a bad active infection. Maybe the antibiotic was just too much and it had to come up, along with the rest of the gallons upon gallons of Mt. Vesuvius-like-lava substance that had been in his stomach.
 
[OR, maybe in one of the 85 petri-dish examining rooms we’d toured the day before, a wee bit of norovirus came home with us. Keep that in mind for later.]
 
Yeah, so panic had abated and Cal seems bleh but not dangerously so and no more puking. Which was great. Then, later that day, I got an email with his Montefiore MyChart and was happy to see that he's scheduled for surgery for the right day. Friday, March 11. HOWEVER THE ADDRESS IS A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT ADDRESS FROM ALL THE PLACES WE'VE ALREADY BEEN. It says 111 East 210th St., which, yes, is part of that compound of medical facilities, Moses Hospital to be exact, I suppose, but what the fuck? The beautiful lady at 3415 Bainbridge, the Children's Hospital part, said we'd be THERE. How the fuck are we supposed to know where to take him? I'm going to get a call (they say) on Thursday confirming anything, but at this point I have no faith that we will be sent to the right place, and he'll be fasting again, and it'll be a longer fast because we're scheduled for later, and I just can't, folks, I just can NOT. There won’t be a food truck in the God-Blessed borough of the Bronx, NY, that will be safe. Yeah, so stay tuned. We’ll be somewhere.
 
Ok, where am I, so then we had Sunday and I tried to screw my head back on straight for all the things we have to work out this week for "Operation Get Calvin Out of Pain and Constant Danger of Infection." BUT, guess what happened next. Sunday night into Monday morning, Mike Simon, unflagging and intrepid husband steadfastly marching us through every second of this motherfucking debacle, puked his guts up. And now it’s Monday, and there’s been more puking, and shaking, and chills, and during one of his vomiting sessions this morning something popped on his right side around his ribs, sending him into the kind of pain that makes your eyes roll back.
 
I am not fucking kidding you.
 
Urgent care thinks it's a pulled muscle, and he's not running a fever, but if he doesn't improve with a muscle relaxant (which he can't take until the anti-nausea meds kick in), I need to get him cat-scanned to make sure he doesn't have something flared up in there. And the odds of him being able to safely help me get Cal's nose swabbed tomorrow? Care to lay any bets?  The usual procedure is the nurses come to the car window, I sneak into the trunk of the SUV, Mike sits in the back seat next to him, I hear a bell go off in my head, and it’s Wrestlemania for as long as it takes.
 
I'm a lapsed Catholic, but we need all the help we can get, so if you need me, I’m in a corner somewhere, rocking back and forth, rosary beads flying through my fingers on a continuous loop, praying that my man and I are both are fit as fiddles on Friday. I'm superhydrating so that when I get this goddamn stomach bug (that I know we got from one of those goddamn germ casserole buildings we were hitting, door to door, like some kind of twisted, bizarro Halloween nightmare), I don’t end up attached to an IV pole while we’re taking care of business.
 
So that’s all the news that’s fit to print around here. Stay tuned to this channel for updates. Let me entertain you. Let me make you smile. 
 

“Well, I found the secret to life
I found the secret to life
I'm okay when everything is not okay.” - Tori Amos

Not a Word

I once used the word "veggies" in front of my grandfather. He cast aspersions on me for that transgression for about five full minutes. That's a long time to endure aspersions. 

"Jesus Christ, Trace, why did you say that, that's not even a goddamn word! People have to shorten things and make them cute, it's bullshit, it pisses me off." (Then there was grumble, pontificate, grumble a little more, vituperate, scoff, and then I slinked off sheepishly never to use a cute abbreviated form of anything in front of him again, so help me God.)

Perhaps that is why I am about to tell you something you all need to hear. Vaxx isn't a word. It's not a fucking word. (My grandfather was anti-f-word, I had to watch my filthy mouth around him, so he'd say it a different way, but bet your ass he agrees with me up there in heaven where, still, he knows everything and is always right.)

What is it then? What is vaxx? I will tell you. It's a clever buzzwordy way to denigrate, vulgarize, and dismiss a segment of the population as a bunch of hopeless, despicable creatures not fit to live. Oh, hold on, you have to throw the prefix "anti" in front of it to make it work...ahhh, see, now you get it.

And don't start with me. And don't mean-comment me, I'll just delete it, so fuck off with your hate. Because the truth is, I am not anti-immunization. I am very glad we don't have to die of diphtheria or tetanus anymore. It's good that we're not getting sterilized by mumps. I'm VERY happy that a bite from an angry, foamy mammal doesn't have to be a death sentence. If I, or anyone I love, ever needs a rabies shot, bring it on, please.

But.

I have found myself to be vaccine-cautious. I've developed an annoying tendency not to believe everything I'm told by a certain industry that is worth more money than a yacht-load of Bill Gateses. And because of that, just attaching my name to these words will likely make many of you point and laugh at me (at best), call me horrible names and wish to ruin me (at worst). 

Yet that's where we are. We aren't allowed to be vaccine-cautious. If combining too many too often on a tiny baby makes me nervous, tough shit. If I want to know why a newborn needs to get Hep B, I can go fuck myself. If I screw all my courage to the sticking point and ask why I can't get just a measles vaccine, or just a mumps vaccine, or just a rubella vaccine, or a tetanus shot without anything else riding along...well, I could probably be jailed for that question at this point. Because science.  (Um...what if I find some science that backs up my worries, may I ask about that? No, I may not? Mmm-k.)

So no worries. I'm not asking any questions anymore. I pretty much feel all my questions have been beaten out of me....and it started long before Covid. I have children who got certain shots in the early to mid aughts, and "things" happened. Just some "things." I've since learned that such "things" are all in my active imagination, I need to have something to blame, and wondering aloud about these "things" at all makes me bad, stupid, and dangerous, so I don't anymore. I truly don't. Call off the dogs, I've given up.

Oh, speaking of having given up, I'm fully Pfizer vaccinated (of course you can see my card) so that I can participate in society without wearing a scarlet A on my chest and being perceived a scourge upon humanity. And I feel great about it.

But let's get one thing straight, ok?  Call me an anti-vaxxer, to my face, go ahead, see what happens. 

It's not a word.

Encountering George

I need to write this one down before it gets away from me...and in case I'm ever called to testify in court about any of it.

I was in my front yard getting ready for my walk, getting earbuds adjusted, all that, and a boy happened by with his dog. The boy looked to be about ten years old, and the dog was pulling him hard. Couldn't really tell who was walking who, and she was one of those dogs who wants to say hello to everybody and won't take no for an answer. So the boy asked me if I like dogs. I told him that indeed I do. He replied, "She's friendly, her name is Star," and I proceeded to crouch down and say hi to Star, who was indeed very friendly, and I figured that would be the end of it. 

It was not.

"Are you going for a walk?" the boy asked, making a swirling motion with his hand, because we essentially live in a big circle, and I told him yes, that was my plan.

"Can I walk with you?"

What do you say? "Um, no thanks, I'm out here to get away from my own kids and listen to podcasts and get as many steps on my Fitbit as possible before I start my workday." That's what I wanted to say. But what kind of ten-year-old kid, walking his dog, wants to pal around with a middle-aged lady doing her power walk? I kind of wanted to find out. And it felt like it would've been really mean to say no.

My new friend, let's call him George, talked a blue streak and it wasn't easy to follow everything he was saying. It felt like a combination of things going on with George...perhaps some speech issues, maybe an autism spectrum issue, and definitely a "George's mind moves too fast for his mouth to keep up with his thoughts" issue. The information I got from George, as far as I can tell, included the following:

He's in fifth grade and lives with his dad in our development. I asked if he's lived here in our neighborhood long, and he told me, "No, I moved here in fourth grade because my mom can't handle me." 

When he told me tidbits like this about his life, it was very matter-of-factly. He was neither sad nor overly chipper, just conversational and friendly. He'll see his mom this weekend, she lives about a half hour away, and he'll also see his fourteen-year-old brother who lives with his mom. There's a cousin named Sally who lives with him and his dad, and his dad's girlfriend whose name is Gina. He has a six-year-old sister, I asked if she was in kindergarten, he replied he's not sure, he hasn't seen her in a long time. 

There was also a story I couldn't quite follow about him being in the QuickCheck and "someone" phoned Gina about him...he kept repeating "someone" with air quotes..."someone" phoned Gina and then Gina was there at QuickCheck asking if he was ok, if he was safe. Not sure what all that meant.  Of course I have theories. Did "someone" leave him alone in QuickCheck and ditch? And maybe that's why "someone" phoned Gina and that's why he's living here now with Gina and his dad?  The more gentle, friendly, nonchalant questions I asked, the more confusing and complex George's life was starting to appear, and I wasn't sure how much more I wanted to know, or should know. I did get his full name. Seemed like a good idea.  

I've definitely never met anyone quite like George. He was too likable for me to be too annoyed about him hijacking my power walk. So was Star, who kept on having to take breaks to stop and catch her breath on the hills. George voiced his concerns about people in various homes he could point to who are having parties that they shouldn't have because of coronavirus. And he talked about not being sure about if he'll get to go do sixth grade in the middle school next year because of coronavirus. 

George and Star know where I live now. Not sure how I feel about that. But damn if it just didn't seem like a person who wanted to walk with and talk to another human being, in a friendly sort of way, and there I was. There could be the "special needs" vibe thing happening...more times than I can count there've been children I've never met before in my life who've almost knocked me over to hug me around the knees for dear life in public places, or try to sit next to me in restaurants, or take my hand in Walmart or Target or CVS...maybe some of us just give off a "this one's safe to be around" signal and certain kids pick up on it. Or maybe George is just an old chatty fellow in a ten-year-old's body and saw a fellow life form willing to talk to him and jumped at the chance. He mentioned that some nice person in one of the homes here in the neighborhood gave him a Gatorade and he hopes he gets to see her again.

I guess we're living in a world where people like George may be really really lonely for human contact. George used to get on a school bus and spend the day and interact with so many people. Now he's home an awful lot more than he's used to...but when he goes out to take a walk with Star, there are people he can talk to and it looks to me like he's not the type to squander any such opportunity.

Anyway, stay tuned. I feel like I haven't seen the last of George. I might wear a small backpack with an extra Gatorade in there next time I go walking. 

You never know.

This Is Where We Are Right Now

So sometime last week, husband mentions ordering something off of Amazon—just talking generally.

I go, “What’d ya order?”

He goes, “I’m not telling you,” with a little bit of attitude, emphasis on the YOU, like I’m not allowed to know about it.

I look at him blankly.

He goes on to say, “Yeah, you know, there’s this holiday that’s coming up in a few days...”

I continue to look at him blankly, but now I’m wracking my brain trying to figure it out. I was born April first, is that here again already? There's no lit-up tree in the corner...how long was I asleep for...have I Rip Van Winkled my way into late March 2021? Or Christmas?  What the actual FUCK?

I had NO BLOODY IDEA WHAT HE WAS TALKING ABOUT.

And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is why my family could have gotten out of Mother’s Day this year.

I mean, I have NEVER been so “what the fuck” in my life as I am right now. And I have been “what the fuck” many, many, many a time. Yesterday, honest to God, I was trying to decide whether it was Thursday or Monday. I’m serious. (It was neither, by the way.)

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, but it does. It DOES. Trash goes to the curb Monday night, recycling on Thursday night. Still happening. (Just thought you might need a comforting little reminder that there’s still a civilization, kind of.)

And my very large, brawny 14-year-old-son likes to run around completely naked, any day, any season, so I must bid you a civil adieu pretty soon and tend to that. He doesn't understand how many years ago that stopped being adorable, and also, he does not care. One thing about autism, or at least Calvin's kind of autism...no body image issues WHATSOEVER. Free as a bird. Calvin’s 16-year-old sister, Grace, on the other hand, would gladly lead a campaign to have her beloved brother neutered so she doesn’t have to spend so much time averting her gaze and washing her eyes.

“Pants on, Calvin. PANTS ON!!!!”

You’re likely to hear that uttered, muttered, or screamed at any time of any day around here. Naked knows no calendar.

Maybe we should all be naked. There are protesters that want to end the quarantine. Here’s an idea. Protest naked. There are about 3 or 4 humans on the planet that anybody would want to see naked. The rest of us, no-ho-ho. Bet that would do the trick. “Jesus Christ, put your clothes back on and YES you can go back into Starbuck’s. For the love of God, COVER THAT UP!”

And this is where we are right now. At least here in my head. You can come in if you like, but it can get wild in here. Maybe show up naked...if you're a dude whose last name happens to be Hemsworth...otherwise Friday casual is fine...

It's Nice Out...

I've decided it's time to resurrect Everloving Mess, the blog. I don't know what happened. I just sort of abandoned her. She's been calling me back. So here we are.

We're in, I don't know, day three million and two of the coronavirus quarantine, nobody knows what day it is, or time it is, and nobody cares. I sometimes put Baileys into my first coffee of the day and think nothing of it. And such is life.

But today. OH TODAY. So far we've had a spring that hasn't known what it wants to be, but today, oh GLORY, today! It's sixty-something degrees. The sun is drenching us with his molten heat like a lover returned from the war, and the breeze...I can't even talk about it...it can blow all it wants to and you're never too warm or too cold. You could lie down in the grass and die and be totally hunky dory about it.

Well, can't waste that kind of day, can we? It was coming into noontime, I took a look at Calvin and I said, "Buddy, we are going outside to play. Shoes and socks, let's go."

"Shoes and socks" is Calvin's way of telling us he wants to get the fuck out of the house for crying out loud, so that's the only prompt he needed. He was into it and good to go.

So off we went, across the road of our townhouse complex, and into the playground. It was empty, so no worries about having to play keep away from the other kids on the jungle gym. A few neighbors were walking dogs and had stopped to have a socially distanced chat. Every now and then the breeze wafted their conversation to me, it was something about how they like to work out. I liked the fact that people were talking to each other about their lives, out in the most perfect day imaginable. 

Oftentimes when I take Calvin to the playground, I get a little bored, I want to read a book or play a stupid game or watch Netflix on my phone, but not today. Nope. Felt too good to bask in the sunlight. It felt good to watch my boy and wonder about all the things he was thinking but can't tell me out loud. I was enjoying watching him spin his bright grass-green ribbon, making perfect spirals like some kind of perpetual motion machine; he loves to do that. Every now and then he'd stop the twirling and look up to see what the bird sounds were all about. Sometimes he'd stop and just look like he was drinking the wind. 

By and by he wandered over to the swings. All the swings had big mud puddles under them, and he was eyeing the situation a little disconcertedly. I told him, "Sweetie, no worries, I don't care if you get dirty, swing on the swings if you want to." And so he did. He loves the swings. I do too. 

That's when I looked down for a sec. I wanted to check out the pictures and videos I'd been taking....seeing about which ones I should share with my people to show them this perfect day...inspire them to come out and drink the wind and soak up the sun like we were doing. It was maybe two Mississippis. When I looked back up again after those two Mississippis, I saw that Calvin had kicked off his shoes and socks and was merrily kicking at the mud puddles with exuberant abandon. Two seconds, that's all it took. Oh well, I sighed. It's just good, clean dirt. Not going to dampen my mood. I went and gathered up the shoes and socks and let him have his way, swinging up into the sky, kicking at the filthy muddy water every time he splashed down to earth, soaking his pants from the hem to over his knee. Who cares. It's a beautiful day. How long have we waited for a day like this. Two million and three days, that's how long.

Sooner or later, the boy was done with swinging and made his way over to the jungle gym--one of those typical newfangled plastic things with the slides and the different ways to climb onto it and plenty of room just to sit and hang out on the little platforms at varying levels. Cal likes to make that thing his own, and on a day like today, having it all to himself, he was a happy camper. He settled himself on the edge of one of the platforms, got his bright green ribbon going, swirling and swirling, reminding me of DNA helixes, getting a little hypnotic to watch...so much so that I must have closed my eyes for a few seconds. It was so nice where I was. There's a gazebo in the middle of the park, and I was sitting on the little concrete floor on the outside perimeter of the thing. Didn't want to be in the shade, not on a day like today. So I sat there, like a happy kid on a porch stoop on the first perfect day of the year, and let myself drift. For a few seconds, though. Not for long. I have a fourteen-year-old autistic, nonverbal boy to look after who has at least 6 inches and about a hundred pounds on me, so it's not like I took a nap or anything. Just closed my eyes for a brief moment, breathed in the day, let out a contented sigh, opened my eyes....

And proceeded to shoot across the green, green grass of that playground between the gazebo and the jungle gym so fast that I KNOW it looked like a special effect from an episode of The Flash. I don't run to get out of the rain, but right then, right there, I  was Jessie fucking Owens. 

Because when I opened my eyes and directed my gaze to my beloved boy, there he was, COMPLETELY NAKED FROM THE WAIST DOWN. No pants. No underwear. Nothing between his adult-sized man genitals and the beautiful beautiful day but a gentle spring breeze.

Yep. My boy, All six foot something, 240-plus pounds of him. Hanging brain in the bright sunlight--swinging pipe in front of God and all the world. (In case you're wondering if we'll be on the news...probably not...someone up there doesn't totally hate me, there were no witnesses other than the birds of the air and some creatures that creepeth upon the earth...squirrels and whatnot).

His pants were wet, you see. From the mud puddle. He doesn't like the way that feels. I should have thought of that. And when the pants come off, well, the underpants just kind of go along with sometimes, now, don't they?

Jesus Christ on a Bicycle. 

My Uncle Dan used to like to say, "It's nice out...I think I'll leave it out."  I'm willing to bet his spirit was delightedly whispering just that very phrase into his great-nephew's ear, just to see what would happen.

So ended our idyllic trip to the playground, on day two million and three of the quarantine, first perfect day in forever, worthy of Adam and Eve before the fall.

And me with no fig leaf.