Who has time to be bored? Not me!

Today was not really an art day. I diddled around with the Gimp for about an hour, then my writing muse slapped me upside my head. I have written six articles for my blog today about all kinds of things:

• Impeaching Trump 
• Chicago and Music being in my bones
• A bit about a portmanteued proverb I love 
• One about nicotine addiction
• One about god, or the idea of god, or whatever
• And this one, which only kind of counts

It was a productive day.

I really am an eclectic freak. Playing uke and recorder, doing digital art and zentangle and making jewelry, and writing from my gut. Between all that, I talk to people, make new friends, share a gazillion memes, play computer games, and more. And when I go to bed, I read for at least an hour before turning out the light.

I don't have time to be bored. Considering that I'm basically housebound and can't really leave my bedroom due to the difficulty involved in hauling my carcass from room to room, my life is incredibly rich and full.

I am a very fortunate old crone.

Proverbs and Portmanteaus

 

Years ago, I intentionally combined two sayings into one portmanteau proverb:

If wishes were fishes, then beggars would ride.

A combo of "If wishes were fishes we'd all cast nets", and "If wishes were horses then beggars would ride".

I say it a lot, so much so that my kids use it frequently.

The Dogs Who Built My Life - A Poem

Connor in front, Romeo behind

I was raised in a house where dogs

were not pets but storylines.

Flockie, fierce little guardian,

patrolling the borders of childhood.

Ollie, the Wonder Dog,

half giant, half myth,

all heart,

the one who walked beside me

like he had been assigned the job by the universe.

Heidi, wild and bright,

a fugitive with sheep’s wool on her breath

and summers in Nova Scotia in her bones.

Gunther, the one puppy miracle,

proof that even small dogs

can write big legends.

And then came the ones who shaped

the in between years,

the ones who carried me forward

when life shifted under my feet.

Lulu, my heart dog,

the little dachshund who loved me

with a devotion that left a hollow

when she was gone.

Her absence was a wound

I did not know how to close

until Romeo arrived

and stitched it gently,

one heartbeat at a time.

Murphy, the tiny poodle

with the soul of a knight,

who lived twenty one long years

and would have taken a bullet for me

without hesitation.

I loved him,

but not the way he loved me,

and that truth still tugs at me

like a thread I never tied off.

Sid Vicious,

whose name was a lie

and whose only violence

was the ferocity of his fetch obsession.

A dog who believed joy

was something you chased

and brought back proudly

again and again.

And now, the pack that fills my home

and my days

and the spaces I did not know

were still empty.

Romeo, my heart dog,

the one who looks at me

like he remembers every lifetime

we have ever shared.

Cubby, my little buddy,

joy wrapped in fur,

a shadow with a wagging tail.

Connor, my sweet and fragile boy,

who learned safety in my hands

and taught me softness in return.

Rocco, borrowed but belonging,

folded into the pack

as naturally as breath.

These dogs,

past and present,

are the chapters of my life.

They shaped me,

held me,

trusted me,

and taught me what loyalty feels like

when it curls up beside you

and falls asleep.

I did not just grow up with dogs.

I was raised by them.

And I am still being raised

every day

by the ones who walk beside me now.

Not Bob: The Orange Cat Who Thinks He’s a Dog

 

Not Bob isn’t just a cat. He’s a phenomenon in orange fur, a walking burst of confidence and questionable decisions who somehow manages to charm every creature in the house. He talks constantly, a running commentary of meow, meOW, MEOW that sounds less like a request and more like a declaration of his own importance. And the dogs believe him. Romeo drags him across the room by the scruff like a beloved plush toy, and Not Bob just goes limp with the blissful trust of someone who has never once considered the possibility of danger. He lets the dogs groom him, shove him, nudge him, and he returns the favor by inserting himself into every canine moment like he was born into the pack. He isn’t a guest in the dog world. He’s a citizen. Maybe even a diplomat.

The little beast has one, POSSIBLY two, brain cells...

His hobbies include locking himself in the bathroom by pushing the door shut, then immediately complaining at full volume until someone rescues him. He also has a long‑running feud with the floor vents. Not Bob has pulled them up, chewed through tape, defeated glue, and ignored every deterrent except bricks, which he is not yet strong enough to move. He would absolutely appreciate a set of weights for his birthday so he can train for the day he reclaims access to the heat‑duct underworld.

There’s no dignity in him, no hesitation, no fear. Just pure, unfiltered orange cat energy wrapped around a heart that believes every creature is a friend. In a house full of dogs and stories and history, Not Bob has somehow carved out his own legend simply by being exactly who he is: loud, fearless, affectionate, and absolutely convinced he belongs everywhere.

FUCK Cancer! Fuck It In The EAR! I’m DONE Watching This Monster Hurt People I Love

Cancer is the one motherfucker that never clocks out. It doesn’t care how good you are, how careful you’ve been, how much you’ve already survived. It just shows up like a goddam wrecking ball and dares you to pretend this is normal. I’m fucking sick of it. I’m sick of watching people I love get blindsided by a piece of shit disease that feels like it’s everywhere, all the time, creeping into every family like some kind of outrageous cosmic joke.

We talk about cancer like it’s a statistic, like it’s a chart, like it’s a ribbon color. But when it hits your circle, it’s not a number, it’s a gut punch. It’s fear. It’s rage. It’s the helplessness of knowing that even with all our medical advances of the last motherfucking century, all our research, all our awareness campaigns, this thing still keeps taking swings at the people who deserve it the least.

And I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be calm. Tired of acting like this is just part of life. Tired of watching strong, brilliant, irreplaceable people get dragged into a fight they never fucking asked for...

Boy am I triggered

So the death of Dilbert creator and infamous racist pig, Scott Adams, from prostate cancer this week has poked some of my buttons.

My Dad was a good man, but he was a little too damn much of a hippie. When he was diagnosed with bladder cancer, his urologist told him that removal of his bladder would get it all, and he would live a long life. Then the urologist explained that the prostate goes out with the bladder, and that's the end of the sex life.

My father was 38 when he was diagnosed. He had an active social and dating and sex life. Losing the ability to have intercourse would have really been devastating to him. So he told the doctor, let's do mild chemo, and I'm gonna do laetrile and the nothing but wheat grass juice diet, and visualizing the cancer going away and all will be well.

But all was not well. After a couple of years, his cancer was down to a small spot of atypia, due, no doubt, to the mild chemotherapy. So very "intelligently" he stopped the chemo and continued with the quackery.

Seven months later, the cancer had run wild in his body. All of his organs, and his bones.

Scott Adams was told he had early state prostate cancer. He opted for, of all fucking things, ivermectin. He gambled and lost, just like my dad.

And I am reminded once again of how dangerous "alternative/holistic medicine" is.

Folks, laetrile is poison and does nothing. The baked potato diet will bore you to tears. The wheat grass juice only diet will turn you into a skeleton and weaken you so you die faster. Vizualization is soothing and helps the psyche, but it does not cure cancer. And if ANYBODY suggests bloodroot to you, kick them out of the house with prejudice.

And horse wormer will not cure cancer, either.

Got cancer? Go to a DOCTOR!

That closet has several thick oak doors, and it SUCKS!

 I wish my daughter felt safe to be herself, but outside the house, it's rural Texas out there, and it ain't safe. It ain't safe at all in this part of Texas to be visibly trans. If you don't "pass", you best stay presenting what your birth determination says you should dress like. And Lis does not pass. She's beautiful, absolutely beautiful, but even if she dressed as a girl usually dresses, they would spot her and make her life hell. Or make her life... NOT. Texas.

I wish she could afford to move to at least Austin, but on less than $800 a month income (disability) that ain't happening. At least there's liberals there. 😛 But ideally, I would see her in the San Francisco Bay Area, with her unusual sibling, my 34 year old estranged kid. However, I think those two would really be good for each other. And Lis would be a lot safer. Sadly, I can't say "safe". Nowhere seems to be all that safe for trans folks. Some places are better than others, but none of them are wondefully safe.

If you're trans, a lot of the world paints a target on your face and on your heart. And that just sucks so damn hard. If you don't feel safe, then do what you are able to do in order to stay safe. And safe also includes safe within yourself, not hurting yourself by staying hidden, if it's making you absolutely miserable.

It's making Lis miserable, and I want to help her and I don't know what the hell to do. I've told her that if she wants to dress pretty around the house, even if she doesn't want to dress that way in downtown Fort Worth, she is more than welcome to. I've offered to show her ways to braid her long hair. When she came out to me and Sam, I took her to get her ears pierced. I just don't know what the hell to do to be more supportive of her and help her be happier. It hurts, to see her moping and moping and rarely smiling. She was such a happy go lucky kid.

If wishes were fishes, then beggars would ride, as I always told the kids when they wanted the impossible to attain, like the latest most brand new gaming console that can't be had for love nor money, and even if you found one, it would be $750 and you can not spend that on games.

Arachnophobia

I am a major arachnophobe. Show me a spider, I show you a woman having a panic attack, whimpering and staying in the center of the bed for safety from spider fangs. I am particularly terrified of tarantulas, the big hairy bastards.

Here in north Texas out in the boonies, we get one sneaking in the house occasionally. I generally freak out until my husband catches it and removes it from my house. But they're NOTHING compared to the opossum who somehow got in and spread our full trashcan all over the place. But the worst was that fucking giant white and yellow snake, about four feet long and rather girthy that it took two healthy teenage boys to lift from the top shelf of my pantry, and then carry out of the house.

I do not like living in a place where the wildlife just feels like it can come in and set up housekeeping. I fully expect to wake up one day and see a damn coyote curled up on the big dog bed. Or maybe a bobcat snoring on the couch.

Well, at least its not giant flying cockroaches, like in San Antonio.

My Fucking Sister Is A Piece Of Shit

When you plan to give somebody a simple gift of a book that you know they would love, and they spit in your face and say "Keep it, I'm trying to get rid of stuff." Like a fucking BOOK takes up a ton of space. 

Guaranteed she's buying some damn ugly piece of 1950s furniture this week, or some tacky green opaque glassware to fill her cabinets with and feel like she's so fucking bougie.

Fuck her and her pretentious, phony, all about appearances, bullshit self.

(Note: A LOT of anger inside, proceed at your own risk.)

Psych update and coping mechanisms

I have been unable to get one of my psych meds prescribed for some reason. my shrink can't do it and neither can my PCP. I'm pretty sure that it's a controlled substance.

Anyways, I have been very stable and doing well, so I think I'll stop trying to get the scrip written. If I start having symptoms, I'll take buspar for a few days until it mellows out. That's what I did this last time, and it worked well, although I was kind of a zombie while I was taking it every 6 hours. But it was only a few days, and then I felt even again and stopped the tranquilizer...

I got your name written here in a Rose Tattoo..

I wanted to get my husband's name tattooed on, but he was really against the idea. So I got a rose, to commemorate the day we fell in love, in the San Mateo Rose Garden in California, surrounded by what we call Fire Roses (red roses that changed in a gradient to yellow at the petal tips)...

Not Another WORD, Mister!

 

I have just woken up.

Why is it that Sam expects me to be wide awake and able to make decisions and converse on current events when my brain is not fully booted up?

Twenty-one years of marriage and he still does not understand that just because I am upright with my eyes open does NOT mean that I am cognizant of a damn thing!

Men!

There are puns, and then there are bad puns.. but I repeat myself...

 

My mathematician husband just told me that I am his Abacus of Love... (look inside if you dare!)

Sir Francis Drake and Me

 I just learned that Francis Drake is my 8th great grandfather.

That's so freaky.

The man was quite the navigator. But he was also a slaver early on, and a brutal fucking pirate, and of course there was the Rathlin Island Massacre and other atrocities and controversies. So he was basically a good sailor, but a piece of shit person... (family tree images inside)

Keoni's Mele

Uncle Jack and Auntie Cathe

I wrote this piece around 2K, about my Uncle Jack. He has been a huge influence in my life, and is one of the people I love most on this planet. He's a musician, philosopher, student of life, and he is my beloved uncle and Godfather...

Childhood Memories: The Atrocities of 60s Fashions

 

My big sister and I were hippie kids of a single parent hippie father. We wore blue jeans and tee shirts and tie dye, and funky clothes his girlfriend made for us. Pretty much everything that was not made for us was purchased at Salvation Army (or lifted out of the donation bins after dark)...

Do you need my kidney?

I have several best friends. These are the women and men that I am absolutely closest to and would swim nekkid with...

Da Besties

 

I'm the one on the left. Patti is on the right. I look demented, Patti looks stoned off her nut.

Best friends since 1976. We went through hell and high water together. We lost track of each other in 1982, when we were in our late teens. 

For 43 years we searched for each other, and had no luck. I found her on Facebook, but she never logged in to her account, so she never saw my messages. I was able to contact her little brother and ask him to tell her I was seeking her, but he took his own life right around that time, and she never got the message.

Finally I paid a people search company for data, and got what looked like it might be her address. I sent her a Christmas card, and she got it and wrote back. This was last Christmas, 2024.

Within days we were on the phone. A few months later, her boyfriend passed away and she had to move in a hurry. I told her to come out here to Texas from Florida, and she has been here since June now.

And you know? It's like no time at all has passed. We picked up right where we left off. Tighter than a nun's sphincter, bickering regularly, but always ALWAYS each other's number one.

I felt incomplete for 43 years. Now I have my family, my dogs, and my Patti. Life is good.

Dogs now and before

Diesel, RIP

Cubby

Romeo (black) and Connor (brown)

Romeo and Connor

Murphy, RIP

Sweet Molly, RIP

Diesel (left) and Sid both RIP

D-O-G, also RIP

Maisie Mae, RIP

My sweet Lulu, RIP

Murphy again

Our current dogs are Connor, Cubby, Rocco, and Romeo. The rest shown here have all passed, and boy HOWDY are they missed.

For some reason, I cannot find a single picture of Rocco. I'll take one later today and upload it. :)

 

Argument with himself tonight - Love can be a real pain in the ass

I really hate it when we argue. We both have this ability to put a really sharp edge on our tongues. We don't say hateful things to each other, we just.. get snippy and sarcastic. And I hate it.

You would think after 21 years, we would manage not to feed off of each other's bad moods. Tonight it started with his bad mood, and I responded in kind, and next thing we knew, he's stomping to lay down on the couch, and I'm up for the rest of the night unable to sleep, so I rescheduled my doctor appointment which was later this after noon, for a week from now, because no way I'll be able to stay awake long enough to get to my 4PM appointment, but I'm not going to be able to sleep for hours yet.

We've already apologized to each other, and he's back in bed where he belongs. Our arguments never last more than 15 or 20 minutes. They flare up fast, and they die down fast. But man, they suck when they happen.

My old neighbor in California, Adeline, told me that in 42 years of marriage, she and her husband, Art, had NEVER argued or fought or even disagreed.

I wish I knew THAT trick.

I look at the life we have built, the kids we have raised, the many many MANY trials and joys we have weathered, and I know that even with the occasional spat, I would not trade this man for the world.

But earlier tonight, I would have gladly strangled him.