Life with Pets: Goodnight, Zeus - A One-Act Play

Nearly three hours after the evening began, our heroes, THREE and JUJU, lie on the floor in a makeshift pillow fort they've made in their living room. Upstairs, where the couple usually sleeps, has been quarantined to allow insecticide to work its magic against little invaders known as fleas. This means that Juju, Three, and their animals (KITKAT, BINA, BITSY, and ZOLA) are all having to share a fairly small area of the house because life is awesome. To make matters worse more interesting, a few days before, a wasp had gotten into the house, and Three had chosen to battle it with his fists, breaking a window in his campaign. Of course, because the couple is poor, they had not yet been able to pay for a repair, so instead, painters tape and several pieces of cardboard had been used to cover up the hole. In other words, the past few weeks has been ... interesting.

Three is asleep after three weeks of his dumb job changing his schedule around, and Juju is watching Star Trek: The Original Series on Netflix. Bina trots up to Juju and meows at her.

BINA: I am hungry?
JUJU: You just ate.
BINA: Pet me?
JUJU: Fine.

Zola, sensing that pets are being administered, lumbers in from the kitchen and pushes Bina away from Juju's hand.

ZOLA: Mommy! Pet me, pet me!
JUJU: Zola, Bina was here first. Lay down.
ZOLA: What is a Bina? I want pets.
BINA: I am hungry? Again?
JUJU: Dammit, I just want to watch "Space Seed" uninterrupted for once, you guys.
ZOLA: Pets!
BINA: Hungry?

Behind them, a war erupts between Bitsy (aka Esther) and Kitkat for no reason because they are cats. And probably because Kitkat is a giant asshole. 

BITSY: You were walking past me!!
KITKAT: You showed fear!!
BITSY: Mommy!! Tyrannical Not-Friend is hitting me!! And so I have pooped on the floor!!
JUJU: Good GOD!

Three jerks his head up, his eyes droopy. 

THREE: Huh?? Whasgoinonnn?
JUJU: Nothing. I've got it. Go back to sleep.

As Juju cleans up the cat shit, Bitsy jumps on her shoulder and glares at Kitkat, who seems unmoved.

KITKAT: I was only asserting my dominance.
JUJU: If there wasn't insecticide upstairs, I would throw you up there right now.
KITKAT: Whatever.

Suddenly, the obviously not-well-constructed covering for the broken window starts moving, and all of the animals, plus Juju, stare at it, completely baffled as to what is going on. Even Kitkat doesn't care as Bitsy inches past her to further investigate. 

JUJU: Ummmm ... Three?
THREE: [snore]
JUJU: Great.

Juju approaches the window with a spray bottle, as it was the only weapon she could think of at the time, but then a little orange and white kitty head pokes through. It is ZEUS, the outdoor cat who has taken a liking to Juju because she a) feeds him and b) lets him sit on her lap when she reads outside.

ZEUS: Hello!
JUJU: Zeus, you can't come in here.
ZEUS: Why not? I figured how to break this barrier, so I should be rewarded thusly.
JUJU: That's not how this works.
ZEUS: I am a cat; therefore I do not care.
JUJU: Fuck my life.

Three raises his head again, even less coherent than before. 

THREE: Zeus is in the house? Ask him for pie.
JUJU: ...
ZEUS: What is pie?
BITSY: I like pie! I stole some yesterday from Mommy's plate!
ZOLA: Friend from outside!!
BINA/KITKAT: INVADER!!!

Bina stands on her hind legs to sniff Zeus but quickly scampers away, hissing. Kitkat does the same, except she has no idea how to respond when Zeus does not either flee or attack her. He, instead, just stares at her. From the entertainment center's surface, Bitsy reaches over and boops Zeus on the head, and he is equally unresponsive. 

KITKAT: Do. Not. Like. I want to go upstairs but cannot. DAMMIT.
BITSY: What is this bodiless kitty head?
JUJU: Zeus, get back outside. I'll bring you out some food to the front porch, okay?
ZEUS: That is acceptable.

Juju tapes the cardboard back on the window and goes to the kitchen to get a cup full of cat food. Once she places the nibblets outside for Zeus, she returns to all four animals sitting in a row. 

KITKAT/BITSY/ZOLA/BINA: Hungry?
JUJU: You guys JUST ate.
KITKAT/BITSY/ZOLA/BINA: So?

Zeus again pokes his head through a hole of his own making.

ZEUS: Can I come in now?
JUJU: NO.
THREE: Goodnight, Zeus.

THE END.

My Town Is Kinda Like Night Vale??? MAYBE???

So I was a bit late getting into the Welcome to Night Vale party, because ... well, I don't know. I kept hearing about it on Facebook and Twitter (I even followed their Twitter feed and was completely confused about what they were posting) but just never followed through on figuring out exactly what it was. And then I binge-listened to the whole series so far, and GOD, I LOVE THIS.

And then I started noticing things around the little town that I currently call home.

They were small things at first, like the orange mist that surrounds my house in the early morning before the sun rises*, or the seemingly sentient way the stray cats (of which there are numerous, but hey, it's small town America) look at you as you walk by (more on one specific one in a moment). But then even weirder occurrences popped up. For a few weekends in a row, random gunshots rang through the air, but no one seemed to respond. Not even to be like, "Hey, gunshots!" And they all looked at me strangely when I called the police, who never gave me any inclination that they were even looking into it. And the police seem to drive up and down my street at an oddly frequent rate, even though I don't live in a dangerous area**.

And speaking of the police, there is a surprisingly large number of cars that appear to be unmarked police cars, with those little attachments to the side mirrors on the driver's window.

What the top red arrow is pointing to. There's probably a word for it, but I am too lazy to Google it.
Image from http://gmtminusfive.blogspot.com

Every time I either ride or drive our car, about half of the cars we pass have these. So either the police department auctioned off a bunch of cruisers they no longer used or my town has its own Sheriff's Secret Police, which is staffed by some of the gangliest looking people I have ever seen.

Of course, there's also this person speaking over a loudspeaker from the high school at night, and this is probably the weirdest aspect of living here. At first, I thought it was an announcer for the high school football games, and one evening while I was cooling down from a run, I figured, "Well, I can go watch the game, I guess?" As I got closer, I noticed that the sound wasn't becoming crisper, but hey, this is a small town and they probably don't have the best sound equipment, right?? When I finally got to the field, only one of the lights was on, like someone had forgotten to turn it off, and the bleachers were empty. To be fair, it was a Wednesday, so nobody being there is understandable. But I could not, for the life of me, figure out who was speaking and from where and what they were actually saying. I immediately called Three from my cell and asked him to talk to me as I walked home. I still hear the loudspeaker every time I go run, but I probably won't go back there, even when there is a game.

Shudder.

Anyway, about two blocks down from where I live is a house that has a perfectly manicured lawn and creeping vines ... and a small cactus in the middle of the yard. There isn't any sand or desert-like material surrounding it. It's just sitting there in the grass, taunting me with questions. I've wanted to ask whoever lives there about the cactus, but I never see anyone coming or going. Then again, I never see any cars parked there, and yet, the grass stays cut and the shrubs trimmed. I always get a weird vibe when I pass it, either jogging or driving, but I'm too scared to ask any of the neighbors, out of fear that the house or the cactus (or BOTH) doesn't exist or something.

Then there's my house. First, it's across the street from a small apostolic church (whose pastor was kind enough to let use their lawn mower that one time), so we frequently have to deal with ... energetic displays at times. And fabulous Sunday suits and dresses. And the regular misting that only appears around the church right at sunset. We are located at the base of a small valley, but the other houses (including my own) don't get the mist.

Now, our house in particular was built in the 1930s and is generally awesome, even if it doesn't have closets. But there's something ... off about it, and it manifests in the wildlife. When we first moved there, about fifteen feral cats roamed in the furthest part of our yard, and they were all ruled by this giant tabby tomcat, who was easily twenty-five pounds, if not heavier (this is the specific stray I was referring to up top). We still have some strays, one of which is our beloved Zeus-y-boo, but that tabby? Looks like he's gotten bigger, and I fear that he has devoured most of the others. He's scared of me, though, but that's because I chased him into the woods when I got irrationally livid when I saw him humping Zeus out of dominance***.

But it doesn't stop there. Every single animal around here seems to be larger than normal. Horseflies are giant and frequently fight each other; a spider that I named Shelob had a body the size of a quarter; slugs are at least two inches in length, have lived so long that their skin is no longer smooth and resembles a cucumber, and sometimes form giant masses or cover my trash bin outside. The other day, the big ass tabby was attacked and chased off by a fucking squirrel, who nonchalantly strolled away after the cat bolted, like that shit happens every day and what of it, human? I once had a staring contest with a fox that I could have sworn was testing me for something. What? I have no idea because I am not a fox. Well, not that kind, anyway.

I actually just started a little diary of random things in my town that I notice because I feel like I should send in some ideas to Night Vale. Or hell, I may even start a "My Town Is Real Life Night Vale" tumblr or something. Or they might find out what I'm doing and silence me forever. Who knows?

* Okay, it's because of the street lights, but STILL.
** Well, yeah, I did live next door to a drug dealer, but his were mainly pills and he's currently in jail for it. They also moved out about two weekends ago, which was OMG DRAMZ, and my landlord, who also owns their former domicile, was like, "Yeah, they're losers."
*** Which, I know, CATS, but it pissed me off. Severely.

Life with Pets: A One-Act Play

It is dusk, and the pink and golden hues - the last breaths of the sun before it takes its leave from the world - filter through the window upon the bed of THREE and JUJU, married for nearly three years. It has been nearly two weeks since these two have been able to enjoy each other's company, as his work and her sleeping schedule tend to operate on opposite ends of the spectrum, time-wise, and now is an opportunity for sexytimes. 

THREE: Seriously, sex with myself can only keep me going for so long.
JUJU: Don't I know it.

Mostly naked, both stop as they hear labored panting coming from the side of the bed. 

JUJU: We didn't close the door, did we?

Both lean over the edge of the bed to see the goofy grin of a slobbery ZOLA, English bulldog extraordinaire. 

ZOLA: Hi, guys! I'm bored!
JUJU: Zola, get in your crate. Mommy and Daddy are having alone time right now.
ZOLA: That's okay! I'll get up into bed with you! You won't even know I'm here!!

Zola jumps up, landing squarely on Three's ass, and proceeds to sit at the very end of the bed, head tilted and tongue hanging out happily. 

KITKAT (off stage): HEY!! I AM ALONE AND DON'T KNOW WHERE EVERYONE IS!!

KITKAT (aka Tyrannical Not-Friend to Esther aka Bitsy/Bitty/Little Shit), the oldest and most ornery of the Three-Juju household, trots into the room frantically. She follows Zola's clumsy example and leaps effortlessly onto the bed.

KITKAT: Well, here you are. I was alone and not happy about it. I shall stay here so that never occurs again.

Three angrily flops over on his back and growls. 

THREE: Are you kidding me?

BINA, the middle kitty, comes in a few seconds later, curious about all the noise. 

BINA: Are there pets being given? And also food? Because I am hungry? I shall sit on your chest, Mommy!
JUJU: Seriously? Animals, we cannot have sex with all of you in here!

Juju tries, fruitlessly, to remove the animals from the bed, only to have them either deftly maneuver out of her reach or simply jump back onto the bed. Three pulls at his hair in frustration. ESTHER (aka Bitsy/Bitty/Little Shit), the youngest cat and undoubtedly the most rambunctious, pokes her head not quite all the way through the door.

ESTHER: Mommy? Where is --

Kitkat and Esther lock eyes, and the younger one immediately hisses, turning as quickly as possible to flee. 

ESTHER: IT IS TYRANNICAL NOT-FRIEND!! FLEEEEEEEEEE!

Kitkat is already in pursuit, thrilled with the chase, but as she tears after the littlest kitty, her claws rip across Juju's stomach, leaving bloody scratches in their wake. Both Kitkat and Esther have left the stage. 

JUJU: For the love of -- FUCKSHITDAMN! What is wrong with you?? (to no one in particular)
THREE: Are you okay?
BINA: I need to go mediate between the two other kitties! Esther is probably hiding and will need comforting, and Kitkat will need a boop on the head.

Bina merrily skips off stage. 

JUJU: I am going to kill her.
THREE: Kitkat?
JUJU: YES. Shit, these hurt.
THREE: I'll go get the first aid kit.

Three exits stage whatever, for some reason putting on sweatpants, leaving Zola, still panting at the very end of the bed, seemingly unaware that anything out of the ordinary has happened. Which to be fair is kind of accurate. Juju lies in bed, grumbling curse words to herself, when Zola hops over and puts her head right on Juju's boob.

ZOLA: Hi, Mommy!

She lays a horribly sloppy kiss right across Juju's mouth and breathes directly in her face, blissfully and absent-mindedly glancing around the room.

JUJU: The mood is ruined. (sighs)

THE END

Well, that escalated quickly.

First off, it's been a WHILE since I wrote anything here, and for that I apologize. It's been a crazy past month or so, and it's been such a mixture of crazy that I just haven't really felt like writing anything. That includes my third novella, although I made some sort of progress over the last few days.

Anyway, I need to explain a few things. The last year of my life has kind of been an experiment. I don't consider it a failure, since I've learned so many things about myself, which I'll get to in a second, but it is a little disheartening. When I left DHS back in August 2012, I was totally focused on my writing career, even if I didn't get anything "published" for almost four months. I actually got further than I expected - two novellas and an almost published short story (the jury is still out on that experience since it's been over two months and I have yet to hear anything), submitted my watercolor paintings to an art show at a local convention, started working on a future webseries and another novella/novel series, etc. I'm actually kind of impressed with myself, in the least arrogant way possible.

But through this experiment, I realized something. Being a dependent spouse is difficult, to say the least, particularly when you are as Independent Woman as I am (thanks, Bey), but I guess I couldn't have predicted how much it would affect me. I mean, I think if everything took off like I'd hoped it would*, and I was at least somewhat contributing to our household expenses, I wouldn't have been nearly as stir-crazy as I turned out. However, I was constantly reminded that, because of my decision, we were back to how things were before we filed for bankruptcy. Well, we were able to pay our bills, but yeah, that's about it. We were living hand to mouth. Our meager savings disappeared, and Three was trying to find ways to make sure that we could occasionally, you know, buy food that wasn't ramen noodles or canned chicken. It was nearly killing him, truthfully, and all I felt was guilt, despite the fact that I was putting out more creatively than I had in years.

This constant bug in my ear - "Look at you, you lazy slob; your husband is exhausted and it's all because of YOU" - was enough to drive me nuts, but it wasn't just that. Being a Sagittarius means that, despite my sometimes introverted nature, I am most definitely an extrovert. I need to be around people, at least some of the time. Living in a more rural area than I was used to wasn't really that big of a deal in the beginning; I'd been living in the city for so long that a break from all the humans was a nice reprieve. But then throw in the fact that we didn't have a second car (thanks, old landlord bitch!) meant that I was even more tied to the same four walls with nothing but three cats and a dog for company**. And I was most definitely not staying sane. Three noticed it right off the bat, but I was not necessarily willing to admit that I wasn't completely happy. I convinced myself that I was just going through a phase and that, once things picked up, I'd be okay again. When Three's job started acting dickish***, I started worrying. There was no way that I could support us on what nothing I make from my writing, so I went on the hunt for some type of job.

And really, it could have been anything. I was even searching for part-time work, mainly in the same area where Three works so it would be easy to carpool. Plus, it would have been fairly easy to find a job there, since it's mainly retail and I figured, "Hey, I wouldn't have to emotionally invest in this because, ha, retail****, and then I could still focus on writing! Win/win!" Somehow, though, I found myself looking at armed forces jobs. Because why the fuck not? I was just researching and no harm could come from that. Except that, as I went further into it, I felt drawn.

Now, I grew up in a military family. Both of my parents were officers in the Air Force, and both attribute a lot of their current success to serving in it. And honestly, I kind of miss that life. I know that the military doesn't always have it easy, and there are a lot of issues within the community that have yet to be resolved (hi, sexual harassment!), but for the most part, the good greatly outweighs the bad.

Anyway, I requested further information from all branches, with the Air Force being my first choice, but the National Guard was the first who called. When I got into contact with the Navy, the officer recruiter made a big deal about my age (the ancient number 29), even though I have a good three years before I'd be ineligible because of it. The Air Force never called me back, despite the multiple times I called AND requested to be contacted via the interwebs. And I was a little wary of the Army, since I'd have to go to officer candidate school on or before my thirtieth birthday*****. The Guard was a lot more flexible, and I'd still be able to become an officer, since their age requirements aren't as strict.

I went ahead and took the ASVAB, which I later found out was a test for high school students, so if I didn't score highly, I would have felt like a complete dumbass. Luckily, I did really well, which opened up a lot of opportunities as far as job options go (I'm wanting intel because who the fuck wouldn't?), and now I'm just waiting to go back to MEPS to get my physical done. And all of this happened ... in the past month? Two weeks? Who knows? I sure as hell don't. I mean, I'm still looking at the Army, since the benefits are better with active duty officers, but I'm pretty sure I'm going Guard. Plus, there's always the option to go active, although that's determined by need.

To be honest, everything really is up in the air right now, but I know that I'm going in the right direction. For now, I'm just going to breathe and bust my ass physically so I will at least be somewhat prepared for the fun that is morning PT. Ugh. Wish me luck.

* Although, to be fair, I am HORRIBLE at marketing. I hate constantly scrolling through some of my self-employed friends' posts on Facebook, reminding me of their awesome sales (granted, most of them are working for, like, Scentsy and Avon and shit, but still), so I assume the same of them. It's why I created my own author account so if they wanted to get updates, they could. Maybe this makes me an awful person, I don't know.
** They are fabulously fun, and I wouldn't change our arrangement for anything. There's something about watching their personalities interact that just makes me giggle.
*** His company was run by morons. Seriously. I could write a whole series on the clusterfuck that is that company, but quite frankly, that's a lot more effort than they put into operating their business, so whatever.
**** I'm not saying that people with retail jobs don't love what they do. But for me? Not really. I look at retail as a way to pay the bills.
***** Which is fast approaching and I can honestly say I'm super excited about it, although that's probably because I'm planning a dinosaur themed party in honor of myself.

Hugs, chocolate and Pamprin ...

I have actually thought long and hard about posting this, since it's still incredibly close to me, but then I remembered that I'm me and that I can't really hide anything deep within the recesses of my brain for too long because it just pops out like a cork under too much pressure.

So, here goes.

I'm not going to lie: when I was ten, I was positive that I wanted to have five children, and I even had ten full names for them all, depending on whether or not I had girls or boys. I'm sure my list is somewhere in my boxes in storage up in the attic, written in my full preteen self's handwriting. As I got older, much to the amusement of my mother, I whittled the number down to one, where I firmly stand. First of all, kids are damned expensive, and secondly, I'm not sure I would really want to deal with any more than that. Granted, this could probably change at some point in my life, but a lot of that kind of depends on whether or not Three and I can have children.

We've been trying since we got married to get preggo but with few results. Although it was never confirmed by a doctor, I do believe that I had a miscarriage about a year ago, thanks to the most extreme period that I've ever had (and hoo boy, do I have some Extreme Menses [TM]), and I've been tracking my cycle like a damned hawk. I even downloaded TWO period trackers that had a different ovulation day, (ick alert) monitored my vaginal discharge, took prenatal vitamins, etc. etc. etc. Still, we got nothin'. Around seven or so months ago, I nearly had a breakdown. Poor Three was just joking when, after a full two weeks of daily sexytimes (and then three days' rest because, shit, sex is a workout and he was working 12-hour shifts), he asked after he found me unwrapping a tampon, "Aw, honey, what's wrong with your uterus?" I saw the transition in his eyes from "haha I am jokes" to "OMG WHAT DID I JUST SAY TO HER I AM HORRIBLE," and I knew that he wasn't trying to be cruel, but that didn't stop me from bursting into tears and bawling, "I am broken!" He felt like the worst husband on the planet and spent the next four hours consoling me with hugs, chocolate and Pamprin.

I've been told by several medical professionals that because I have regular periods (yay and boo, obvs) I am probably fertile, but that they wouldn't be able to say for sure until I got tests done and HAHAHA ARE THEY KIDDING THOSE ARE EXPENSIVE. Fertility tests and treatments are not covered by insurance, understandably, I guess, but it's very discouraging and, honestly, super depressing.

Then I ran across this website that is dedicated to celebrating what they call "Not-Moms." At first, I was a little skeptical because I am still not entirely comfortable with the idea that I may or may not have Teh Bebeh, but reading a lot of the articles that they posted actually got me thinking about why I was so desperate to have children. A quote on their "Famous Not-Moms" page is as follows:

In particular, this list exists for any woman who mistakenly believes that without giving birth, she will leave no legacy.

I don't think that this is necessarily the entire reason that I want to have at least one kid. Part of me wants to raise a child with the knowledge that I would try to make sure that they understood that they are loved and accepted for who they are, even if they don't follow my prescribed set of values or desires. Another part wants to live vicariously through someone who is just experiencing things for the first time, to feel the joy and terror and skepticism and thrill of learning something new, so I can get a new perspective on things. There are a thousand other reasons why I'd like to give birth to a kid, but yes, I would like to leave a legacy of sorts. To know that somehow, a bit of me lives on and can affect other people even when I'm gone. Not that I don't believe that my art or my writing won't do that, but there's a certain static nature to that sort of thing. But with a living, breathing person? The possibilities are endless! Which yes, I know can also lead to hahaha I'm the great-grandmother of a serial killer! Wheeeee!

So of course I'm torn. Of course I still feel a little stab of jealousy when I see my friends' status updates about the cute thing their two-year-old did or when the media does nothing for a few days but cover the birth of the future king of the UK. Of course I start to count the ways my life would be just as fulfilling without a child as it would be with one. And I'm still young, so of course my current childless existence may change, save an early menopause (for which I am at high risk, THANKS, GENES). But this little voice in the back of my head lets me know that I'm not really ready to accept that I may never bear crotchfruit (and I say that with the highest regard possible). I may never be okay with it, but at least I'm taking the time to think of it, I guess?

All I can do right now is live my life as it currently is. I can't change what's going on in my uterus obviously, whether or not it has to do with me or with the husband, which THANKS, LACK OF MONEY. Today, I took the time to read the Beatitudes, a piece of literature from the Bible that I think Christians should want in our courtrooms instead of the Ten Commandments, and found myself reading further into the Sermon on the Mount. Even though I don't hold the Bible to the same level of sacredness that a lot of Christians do, it is a book that I've read through several times, and this verse was the one that stood out to me: "Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day's own trouble be sufficient for the day." Oddly enough, I felt a lot better. THANKS, JESUS!

I may be childless now, and I may forever be known as the Lady Who Has No Kids, but I really shouldn't worry about that right now. There's no point. And really, that's all I really needed to hear.

As a writer, I'd like to think that I paint all of my characters, regardless of their race, ethnicity, or skin color, with the same brush: well-rounded, complex, etc. They're all kind of like my children; I know their backstory, what their dreams are, and where they are hopefully headed. Growing up, most of my characters were white because, hahahaha, I'm white, and well, you know, you're supposed to write what you know, correct? When I got older and became fascinated with anime, several Japanese characters would occasionally pop in to populate the woefully whitewashed casts of my stories, and then my interests delved into social anthropology (which is such a cool subject) and linguistics (I swear, this does fit in!). Lo and behold, new characters of all sorts of colors, creeds, sexual orientations, etc. started playing much larger roles in my narratives, and honestly, I felt super proud of myself that I'd learned how to create a diverse universe. "Mad props, Juj," I'd congratulate myself.

It's helpful, in my case, that most of my characters live in worlds that are different from my own but are nonetheless familiar. For instance, Ren, the main character in my "Legion" series, is from a city-state that I modeled somewhat on Sri Lanka, and my mind's eye pictures her as Tamil. Another character from the series is Captain Koca, who I initially believed was kinda Irish looking, has instead revealed herself to me as having Japanese or Korean features and culture (although she still has her flaming red hair and height). The only character in that series right now that is white is Mason, who more or less serves as the straight man among all the strangeness. In other stories, like my short story, "Waking Up," the characters are not really described as having a skin color; instead I focus on how they dress, their attitudes, etc. Part of this is because I want to eventually make it into a movie and I don't want to limit myself to certain people for the characters; I'm a big fan of open-ended casting, like Shonda Rhimes approach when finding actors for "Grey's Anatomy." It wasn't until the actors had been selected that they gave them last names. Pretty inspired, if you ask me. How the show developed beyond that point ... well, I'll just leave you to your own opinions on that one.

Now, I hate to say things like "I'm colorblind," because, let's face it, folks, it's incredibly disrespectful (and reeking of privilege) to even think it when talking to a person of color. Other better bloggers and journalists have covered this topic before (Google it!), so I won't delve too deeply into it. But when I watched the following video, I had to really think about how I handle race (and all other issues and words related with it) in my writing:

I highly encourage everyone to watch the whole thing because it's pretty incredible. I actually teared up a bit, as I just cannot imagine what it's like to see your race/ethnicity/whatever caricatured*, even if it's done by a seemingly well-intentioned person like I believe J.K. Rowling was**. Since I am very much a white woman (Polish, French-Canadian, Native American - we think Cherokee, if our family tree can be trusted - and a smattering of a bazillion other things because hahah I'm several generations into the whole "American" thing), it's important for me to truly examine why I started putting men and women of color into my stories. Was it to just "add color" so I couldn't be accused of being racist? Or was it because they just happened to be that way?

Growing up in the South, race relations have always at the forefront, even if you don't actively seek to talk about it. It just comes with the territory, where the culture is still dealing with the aftermath of the Civil War (we are, and anyone who disagrees with you is either lying to you or to themselves or possibly/probably both), so naturally, race is going to come up when I write anything. I live with it every day. This is not to say that the rest of the U.S. and hell, the world, has moved into that supposed eutopia of post-racism because BWAHAHAHA ARE YOU DUMB, but in the southern United States, it's just more visible because of the history. Now, this is not saying that there aren't racists in the South; hahaha of course there are. There are racists every-fucking-where, but it's just kind of expected from here. Cue: giant eye-roll.

Anyway, it's no surprise that I would take a different approach to race whenever I write someone who isn't white, but I'm starting to wonder if it's enough. I don't have the experiences, upbringing, or biases that would adequately prep me for writing a character of color, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I should just not try. And when someone approaches me (because someone will - and I don't mean that in a sarcastic way; it's just an understanding that you have to come to when you deal with the public, that you aren't going to please everyone and that, yes, you may even offend them), I'm going to listen to them earnestly about their criticisms. That's all I really can do. The above poet actually did a follow-up vlog about a lot of the outcry (both positive and negative), apologizing to anyone she might have offended and opening up further discussion and thoughts on the topic, which I find both brave and incredibly encouraging. If you should feel so inclined, I highly suggest you look up her response on Youtube.

At this point, I'm just rambling, and haha it's because I haven't really slept very well the past few days thanks to a long bout of playing with my new art tablet (thanks, Mommy!) and getting a short story ready for submission to an anthology. So with that, I bid you all adieu and good night! Or morning, since it's now 04:17. Sighhhhh. 

* Yes, I know there are caricatures of white people, but please remember that this is privilege we're talking about here. You don't see white people playing the same character in every.single.show that they are in, unlike a lot of minorities. 

** I honestly don't think that Ms. Rowling went in wanting to create a flat character or a stereotype when she created Cho Chang (hahahaha Garcia Sanchez - that's my favorite part of the video), but I also don't think she thought it all the way through. 

Tampons are NOT anti-feminist, you flapjack.

Look, as most of you know, I'm a lady. I have lady parts. Those lady parts bleed once a month for about four to five days because my uterine wall is an asshole (and also wants to make sure that I can have behbehs). As a matter of fact, I'm on day four as we speak. And yes, I use tampons because I think that pads are gross. I'm lucky in that I can use them, because I am friends with several women who cannot due to various reasons. There are also women who prefer pads to tampons just because. So whatever. Who the fuck cares?

Apparently, The Daily Beast does. I spent so much time arguing aloud with this article that I actually woke my husband up all the way upstairs. My childhood (and well, adulthood, too) was filled with fun conversations that involved all sorts of body functions - just part of the bliss of having a colon and rectal surgeon as a father and a nurse practitioner as a mother. So perhaps I never understood the stigmatization of my menstrual cycle because I never had to deal with it. My father would go buy me tampons like it was no big deal, and both of my parents gave me the "this is what's going on with your body" talk. Any boyfriend that I had was never, "OMG EWWW YOU HAVE BLOOOOD?" Yes, I've even had awesome sex when I was having my own personal shark week. That was my first problem with the article.

When the author, Soraya Roberts, brings up two people - Giovanna Plowman and Carina Ubeda - that have eaten a tampon or painted with her menstrual blood (respectively), I pretty much screamed, "That is because it's fucking disgusting!" I'm a bit more lenient with Ubeda, since as an artist, I can see where she's trying to be ... artistic, but still. I'm not going to buy a painting that has human blood on it, regardless of its origin. I would have the same reaction if a man ate his butt plug or used his semen to sculpt an exact replica of the Millennium Falcon. It's GROSS.

Moving on. I'm going to skip the "but periods aren't in movies and TV" section because, well, unless it serves as part of the plot, it's kind of unnecessary, and step directly into the history of tampons, which were kind of like what access to The Pill was like just a few decades later: freedom for women. Like I said above, pads are not the most fun to wear, especially if you don't want to feel like you're wearing a diaper. And as someone who has severely heavy flow, this happens pretty frequently, and I can just not even imagine what it was like for women who had to wear cloth as a sanitary napkin. At least pads are designed to be absorbent. I am thankful that I live in a time where I can go to a supermarket and pick up a box of Tampax Pearls.

While all of this information was ... well ... informative, then the author just kind of goes off the deep end. Like, I'm not even sure she knows what point she's trying to make.

This quote from Sharra Vostral made me so mad I had to get up from my computer:

The assumption is you have to touch yourself, and kids, and especially prepubescent or virginal girls, should not be doing that ... If you're a virgin, you're supposed to use a pad. Otherwise, you should use a tampon.

OMG, YOUNG WOMEN KNOWING AND UNDERSTANDING THEIR BODIES AND THEIR SEXUALITY BEFORE ACTUALLY HAVING SEX WHERE ARE MY PEARLS FOR THE CLUTCHING. Fuck that. I was using tampons by the time I was twelve, and I didn't even have sex for the first time until I was 19. Now, I don't know if Vostral was saying that this is the assumption or that she actually believes this absolute crock of shit, so I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt and hope that she's just reporting what she's heard. But the fact that this is actually something that people in general think bothers me waaaaaay more. Who's business is it if I choose to wear a tampon or a pad? WHO'S??

Grumble, onto the next part, which actually brings me a lot more rage. And I quote (it's long):

Tampons aren't a bloody mess; pads are. They put your fluid on display, they can smell, and you can't flush them down a toilet - in short, they are visible. 'Part of the stigma is the need to hide [the menstrual blood] right away and not feel it against your body,' [Ingrid] Johnston-Robledo says, and adds that she thinks women who are more comfortable with their bodies 'would be more likely to use products where you really have to look at and interact with your fluid as opposed to clogging your body with a tampon and just tossing it into a toilet.' She considers pads the middle of this continuum, with a menstrual cup being the polar opposite to the unobtrusive O.B."

You, my lady friend, are making some pretty big fucking assumptions about women who use tampons versus women who use pads. So a woman who uses a tampon isn't as "secure" in their own body? How about maybe I actually just don't want to

Basically, this, along with Xbox assholes being all "OMG A LADY IS NOW A BIG WIG UGH I DON'T WANT TO PLAY BAKING GAMES," has just pissed me off for the rest of the day. And honestly, I don't even know what this Roberts is trying to do with this article. She doesn't really make any sense, since tampons really do seem to be more empowering than sexist and "keep the woman invisible." While I agree that menstruation is looked at by many people, men and women included, to be a taboo subject - although I do not count myself or the majority of my friends in this group - this is not the way to go about it. Education is important; boys and girls alike need to know more about how their bodies work so that way they don't freak out (this has never happened to me, so I'm just guessing that some people respond this way??) the first time they realize that, yes, Virginia, women do have periods and, yes, they need to have some way to keep the blood from going everywhere.

The only positive thing I brought away from this article is that I now know of Genesis Be and my new favorite song, "Tampons and Tylenol." So, thanks for that, Daily Beast. You fail everywhere else, though.

So I totally forgot that I signed up for Klout.

I got an email today that was like, "CONGRATS YOUR KLOUT SCORE WENT UP," and at first, I was all, "Wait, huh?" However, I followed the link and, indeed, I had signed up for Klout. My score is piss-poor, from what I am to understand (35 hahahaha), although somehow I had a 90-day high of 47.whatever. Which ... huh?

Like, seriously, how the fuck does Klout work (and also, why do I have such a hard time typing out Klout?)? I get that it takes your social media accounts and then calculates your score based on if people respond or retweet or whatever, but beyond that, I am kind of wondering what the hell it actually does. Even their "How It Works" page is unclear. INFLUENCE! Okay ... But what if people read whatever you post all day and are like, "Hey, that influences me in some way," but they don't actually take action on it? It just ... it baffles me.

And obviously, I care tremendously about it, since I cannot even remember when I signed up for it (and connected my Facebook, Twitter, Google+, AND Instagram accounts).

So I guess my question is this: is anybody else just as ambivalent as I am about this? And actually, follow-up question: does anybody actually have more insight as to how Klout is supposed to help people?

DISCUSS.

I'm moving backwards in time ...

When I threw out my portable phone nearly three years ago, I'd have told you right then that I would never again have a land line, and because life kind of has a way of making you eat your words, I'm thankful that no one ever asked. Last week, the husband and I downgraded to one cell phone and exchanged the other for a plug-in-the-wall land line phone. It's been ... a transition. Yeah, that's the best, least loaded word.

You know, I wish we'd gotten this phone.

Now, I'll be the first to tell you that I'm not married to my phone. I'm not on it at all times, and I even put it in my purse when I drive because nothing pisses me off more than turning my head to glare at the person who's been swerving in and out of their lane and they are fucking texting or whatever. I specifically wanted a smartphone because I figured, well, I want to have a media presence, and if I'm not at my computer, what will I do then?? Huh? HUH?? Wait until I get home to tweet about my awesome experience at Logan's Roadhouse? I THINK NOT. If you ask any of my friends, they'll tell you that the longest they've ever talked to me on the phone is about five minutes. Maybe. Three minutes is usually my max, because I've gotten distracted by something else or I honestly have nothing more to say and don't want to drag the conversation into awkwardsauce territory. So of course, my phone was mainly used for Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook. I even downloaded the Blogger app, but hahaha, yeah, I never used that.

Despite all of this, I teetered between mania and relief. What? I can't take another picture of Zeus, the stray cat that I've apparently adopted, and post it on Instagram? Whee! This "new" corded phone (we bought it for $2.99 at Goodwill, betches) makes me feel all nostalgia-y! Wait. I can't text people?? OMG. MOAR RITING TIME!! Huh. This means they'll have to a) email me, b) message me on Facebook or Google Chat, or c) call me on the land line (although none of them have the number). This definitely limits the amount of time I'll have to talk on the phone. Right? Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I am spazzing out, where's my wine? I didn't realize how much of a connection to the damned piece of technology I'd made, although I'd like to think that it was mainly because of Spotify. The first day that Three took the phone to work, I felt off and even went about trying to find my old iPod so I'd have something that resembled my phone. And I did find it in a box of shit I'd completely forgotten about, in all its chunky glory.

Yep, this bad boy. It feels so heavy now.

As the week went on, though, I kind of liked the fact that I wasn't constantly reminded that I had a new email or that a telemarketer from Utah was trying to sell me a vacation cruise. I'm sure they'll get our new number eventually, but for now, it's nice. And I've found that not having my iPhone with me when I go on walks actually is refreshing, since I get to hear the birds and cars driving up on me before they honk, redneck-style. I don't know if I need a cell phone now, although there's a little part of me that just cringed.

Maybe I just need more time.

Uggghhhhhhhhhhh ...

Being a Sagittarius, I tend to go into all situations with a hopeful attitude, even if I know the probable outcome of the endeavor. It makes me seem a bit foolhardy to most, sure, but meh. I prefer to think positively instead of expecting the worst possible scenario. Sometimes, though, even I have to draw the line.

Last night, I had the wonderful opportunity to go over to a friend's apartment and chill out while talking about everything under the sun, including my own writing, Dax Riggs, religious in/tolerance, and erotic horror (there are connections to all of these, I promise, but uh, you'd kind of have to have been there?). Oh, and there was beer.

For those of you who don't know, I have lots of food allergies, the most recently developed of these being a gluten sensitivity. I can still eat some breads, but they have to be whole wheat, and I can't have a shitload of it - a slice or two, maybe - or else there'll be tummy rumblings and general grossness. The funny thing is, beer is kind of how I found out that I was sensitive to gluten, kind of like how I found that I was allergic to latex through condom use. I would wake up after a wild night of wildness, which included a whopping, like, three beers, and feel like absolute shit for nearly half a day, while others who'd drowned themselves in a case were all bouncy and like, "OMG, we should drink again tonight!" Needless to say, parties in college were not a huge staple of my social diet.

Anyway, last night. A friend brought some Rolling Rock, and I thought, "Hmm, I probably shouldn't drink this in huge quantities or very quickly." So I took one and nursed it for several hours, figuring that I'd be okay. Ha. Hahahahahaha. This logic has never worked for me in the past, and I have no idea why I thought it would be any different, but whatever. Around two or three hours after we got back to the house, as Three and I were lying in bed, I felt this weird airy hardness in my stomach that traveled up my esophagus. I groaned because I knew exactly what was going on and what I needed to do, so I kissed Three on the forehead and went downstairs to the bathroom, where I proceeded to experience this horrible set of bodily functions: sweating, gas, diarrhea, vomit, etc. I have no idea how long I was in the bathroom, since I fell asleep with my head resting on the toilet seat and woke up on the floor.

All of that, and only ONE. DAMNED. BEER. Today has been a recovery day, and I keep looking at all of these projects around the house (aka laundry, brushing my teeth, cleaning up the dirt on the kitchen floor that I tracked in when I half-assed took out the trash, etc.) and just thinking, "I don't wanna." It's even kind of taxing to sit and think about what to type next. I don't even think I could watch mindless television right now. It's times like these that I'm glad that I am 1) self-employed and 2) work from home. I'm going to go guzzle a whole glass of water now. Wish me luck, friends.