karmasoup

BACKSLIDE

In less than two weeks, Minion and I will be celebrating 4 years of marriage.  Though, really, it still feels like every day is already a celebration for us.  I guess in that respect, most folks would probably consider that makes us effectively still newlyweds.  And maybe we are.  I don’t know when that feeling wears off, but maybe it’s the side benefit of marrying your best friend, the person you’re most comfortable with, and the one you most want to spend all your time with.  If that’s the case, maybe it will always feel that way for us.  I hope so.

But we haven’t done much to make a big deal about our anniversaries since the first one.  That year, my gift to him was a “Congratulations, Papa!” Father’s Day card along with a copy of my test results, showing “we” were becoming three.  I don’t think I’m going to be able to top that for a while.  And, of course, every anniversary since has been with a little one in tow, and not a lot of time or sleep in our lives, so we just haven’t been making that big of a deal about them.

Our 2nd anniversary — our first with Firebird — was the first time someone in public mistook us to be our baby’s grandparents.  It won’t be the last, I’m sure.  Not much we can do about that, though, except to laugh at ourselves, and be grateful Firebird keeps us young at heart.


In some respects, I feel like being married has changed so much about me.  Not just in the sense of who I am now, but even who I thought I was.  I don’t think I realized before how much “sex appeal” had been such a vital element of my own sense of self.  And, I’m not saying I can’t be sexy anymore — it just isn’t as important these days as it once was to even bother to try.  I guess maybe I don’t come across like an obvious “catch,” now that I’ve been caught.  I have Minion to thank for that, and I make sure I do.  Often.

Minion thinks I’m sexy.  He calls me his “Pretty Mama,” after the Eagles hit, “One of These Nights.” He says he always felt a connection to that song, searching for that woman in white, and he found her, in me.  That’s as sexy as I ever need to be.  These days I don’t have to care what anyone else thinks about my sex appeal.  Minion’s opinion is enough for me.

Minion naturally creates a nice “safety buffer” between me and the rest of man-kind.  I like that.  I’m so grateful not to have to be “out there” in the meat market of the single life.  When I was dating, I wouldn’t say I had a great perspective on men in general.  I imagine that’s fortunate, because if I had, I’m sure the perspective wouldn’t have been favorable.  At all.

But you can’t really judge an entire gender based on the limited frame of reference you get in pools of options available to ladies seeking male companionship.*  (*And even gals who are not, as prowlers and players are not great at “staying in their lane,” and many seem to think all women are “fair game.”)  I expect the types of men most women are constantly barraged by “out there” are most likely not the best cross-section of the male of the species to fairly represent men as a whole.  Or at least, one would hope not, anyway.

I contend, if you’re looking to settle down (for the record, I wasn’t, and didn’t think I ever would, when I did), you’re better off looking a little closer to home than putting yourself “out there.”  Lifelong partners are best made from lifetime friends, and “out there” is a crazy place.  You’d think most men must see themselves as hammers, the way they act like their primary function is pounding, and every woman just needs to get nailed.


I’ve never formally come out and said # metoo, partially because I’m not looking for sympathy, partially because I don’t want to be seen as just as statistic, but mainly, to some degree, because I figure it pretty much goes without saying.  If you’re living as a woman, in this culture, we can probably all just safely assume # metoo, in some respects.  And then some, for some of us.

I won’t go into details.  They aren’t relevant now.  But it was enough to have impacted my development, my adolescence, my adulthood, and possibly even my perspective on my place in this world.  That kind of trauma can be consequential enough to significantly color every aspect of your life.  It was enough to have created deep-rooted, inveterate patterns, putting out signals like a homing beacon alerting victimizers, manipulators, gaslighters and abusers to take advantage.  Enough that those patterns were difficult to break free from.  Enough that I lost at least 15 years of my life to trying.  Enough that breaking free took getting into my 40s, and finding someone exactly opposite of everything I’d ever been drawn to.  Even enough that when I was pregnant, I desperately wanted a girl.

That’s why Minion and I determined we had to know beforehand.  I was so emotionally invested in having a girl, it was imperative I find out with enough time left in advance to become enamored with the idea of bringing a man-child into this world.  I figured if there was any chance I was going to be disappointed, I didn’t want it to be on the day I delivered our bundle of joy.  Shortly after I got the news, when I was still trying to adjust to it, I had some private time with my Mom, who helped me to put everything in the right perspective.

Mom asked me why I wanted to have a girl.  I told her, because this world is so complex to navigate for little girls, and even still more so for women, I wanted to be able to help guide my baby from infancy through the danger zone of culturally institutionalized social conditioning, chauvinism and misogyny she could not escape, into becoming a strong, independent young woman able to stand up for herself and make her own way in life.  I wanted to be the force that would protect her, the way I hadn’t been — the one that saved her from having to endure what I went through.

What my Mom told me in response that day changed my life.  She said, “Honey, if you bring up a little boy to become a strong, independent, kind and loving, respectful young man able to think for himself and stand up for what he believes, even when it goes against the flow... you’ll save a lot of little girls.”  In that moment, I began to realize some small semblance of scope of the magnitude that task truly carries.  I cried tears of relief and gratitude then, for having been raised by such a wise and loving maternal figure.  And from then on, I could hardly wait to get to work on what will surely be the greatest responsibility of my life.


Pregnancy is an emotionally turbulent time, but the issues looming before you are immense, and even without hormonal upheaval, it shouldn’t be any surprise when your reaction to them becomes overwhelming.  I remember the day I was on my way to work, about six months along, when I had to pull over on the side of the road just to cry, because, during one of the many “conversations” I had regularly with my internal mini me while driving, I realized, I was absolutely, completely, totally, head-over-heels, madly, crazy, bonkers-in-love with the tiny little creature growing inside me — my sweet little baby boy.



Last week, a billionaire investment guru at a wealth management summit lost a $6M contract to backlash and outcry over disgusting sexist comments and other generally offensive remarks, when a number of CEOs in attendance were willing to break the secretive code of silence at the exclusive event in order to expose his crude behavior as unacceptable.

I’ll say that again.

People of power at a Billionaire Boys Club summit banded together to draw a line in the sand and say,

“This is not okay,”

. . . about one of their own.


It’s historical.  Groundbreaking.  Momentous.

It’s inspiring, and potentially a positive catalyst for change.


But even so, sadly, it’s only barely a drop in the bucket.


A brave 16-yr-old girl stands up before the United Nations to say, “How dare you” to a collective of powerful leaders more concerned with maintaining the wealth of antiquated fuel sources than about its impact on this planet, or the health and well-being of our children.  She is mocked, ridiculed, and threatened with violence and even death for speaking the truth, by the types who believe god would never allow his people to have a negative impact on their surrounding environment in the land he promised to them.  She speaks of science, and the need for change for the future.  They attack her looks, her clothes, her behavior, and her mental health.

This is not okay.


Leading this affront is the Gossamer-In-Chief, who left the climate summit to attend a gathering of religious zealots seeking government sanctioned “freedom” to impose their version of morality on this abomi-nation.  Whether or not they will be granted the power to exercise their “right” to restrict and deny the basic rights of others will be determined by a group of conciliators as divided as their domain.  They are supposed to represent the best among us, blameless and above reproach.  But their number includes members confirmed amid the scandal of sexual assault, where actions spoke louder than words, and told the world, it’s not that we don’t believe brave women willing to speak up — it’s just that we don’t care.

This is not okay.


This month, a former white police officer was sentenced to prison for killing an unarmed black man in his home.  He was sitting on his couch, eating ice cream.  One might be tempted to call a singular case of accountability in an ocean of impunity a promising breakthrough.  But two days later, the principal witness in that case was shot and killed, execution style, in the mouth — a tactic generally reserved for snitches.

Just yesterday, not 35 miles from the same spot, an unarmed black woman was shot to death in her home by a white cop.  She’d been up late playing video games with her 8-yr-old nephew.  Police had been dispatched to her location in response to a wellness check, based on a report from a concerned neighbor that her front door was open.  In Texas.  In 70 degree heat.

This is not okay.


Stories like this make me want to close my eyes and wake up from a nightmare, to believe these things don’t happen in the land of the free, that they would never happen here.  But that’s not the reality we live in.  So we have to be prepared.

Our mixed-race boy will grow up having been firmly ingrained to uphold the laws of the land, and always keep your nose clean.  And when you’re unsure, when you’re scared, when you need help, reach out to your family, your friends, your neighbors, your community, your own.  Folks who get you will be there to support you.  But whatever you do... never, ever call the cops.

This is not okay.



We’re making some progress, I won’t discount that.  It just isn’t enough.  Not by a long shot.  Not when for every ounce of ground we gain, regressive forces are working to oppose justice, inclusiveness, and the basic human right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all.

These days, it feels like every time we wake up, some new societal corruption has arisen to pivotally drive home the point that our rights don’t matter.  The law doesn’t matter.  Women don’t matter.  Our children don’t matter.  Love doesn’t matter.  Science doesn’t matter.  The environment doesn’t matter.  Sanity, reason, logic, and critical thinking do not matter.  The future doesn’t matter.  Humanity doesn’t matter.  None of us matter.

We’ve got a lot of issues in front of us right now.  Really.  The world is a mess.

The road to fixing it is not going to be easy.


But when, finally, titans of industry are willing to take on and fight with other titans, that’s a good start for all of us.  And perhaps, even, in a world where the illusion of wealth and the power to maintain it is more important than anything else, and nothing makes sense anymore, maybe a battle between giants is the only way to ever achieve real change.  So maybe we need to keep making them take notice.


Keep speaking your mind.  Even if your voice shakes.  Keep them paying attention.

Let them know we are the majority.  We are outraged.  And this is not okay.


It’s a deplorable tragedy that we as a people have regressed to still be fighting the same great battles hard fought for in the 60s over basic human rights.  Back in the days when protesters were crusaders for peace and love, and champions of the oppressed, and Peter Paul and Mary immortalized, “If I Had a Hammer,” it seemed then like there was hope for the future.

And yet, here we are.

Again.  Still.

So, if I want my son to grow up in a world worth living in, I’ve got to pick up my hammer and get to work.  Because everywhere I look, everything’s a nail.

We’ve got a hammer of justice
We’ve got a bell of freedom
And we’ve got a song to sing
about the love between our brothers and sisters
All over this land.


LJ Idol | Season 11 • Week 3 - Topic: EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE A NAIL
This post has been brought to you by an association with the online writing community forum, LJ Idol.
If you have enjoyed this entry, please feel free to speak your piece, share the love, and pass it on...
                                                                                                            ...and thanks for stopping by.

karmasoup

A SACRED COVENANT

I’ve never been much for promises.  Probably from growing up in a devoutly fundamentalist household that staunchly drilled into me the concept of, “let your yes mean yes, and your no mean no.”  I haven’t held onto everything of that nature I was taught, but some of it has a way of digging in deep, and tends to stick.  From that perspective, it’s better not to make promises than to break them.

But we all have to engage with ourselves in certain negotiations in order to get through our daily activities.  It starts out as a promise, until it becomes a pattern, and then a habit, and then a routine.  That’s how we survive the craziness that is this life.  Even so, on most occasions I need to employ tips and tricks to help me keep my promises to myself.

Like putting together a pillcase of prescribed vitamins before I go to bed to ensure I remember to take them in my lunch for the next day.

(Which reminds me, I need to do that now — hold for a moment, please.)

. . . Or learning to use the power of words — even spoken only in my own head to myself — to send my subconscious the right message — such as, “I will” do that thing I intend to, rather than, “I really should,” leaving my lizard hind brain to automatically fill in the unspoken, “...but I won’t.” My doctor gave me that one... possibly a little outside the scope of her medical license, but she’s seen me through a lot... I’ve come to value her full service brand of caregiving.

. . . Or being privileged enough in my career to only choose the kinds of jobs where I can set my own flexible “core hours,” so I can be depended on to get the job done, but I’m not expected to be at the same place at the same time, day in, day out (which is fortunate for me, as monotony is a natural human habit I can easily fall into, but it’s really not a very good fit for me).

. . . Even buying or renting a home or a car, or having a credit card, or, effectively, anything on contract, for that matter, is essentially a promise to pay an agreed upon amount at a predetermined time.  I keep a multi-colored GL coded scheduled calendar in a macro-enabled spreadsheet database to help me keep track of maintaining all those promises.  (Fortunately, I work in accounting, so that level of OCD comes second nature to me.)


But there are at least a couple ohter, more significant resolutions I have made in the course of my life that still stand out...


Marriage — “that bwessed awwangement” — for example, is a lifelong vow, and the “trick” you get to help you keep your shared promise, ideally, is a partner equally dedicated to the same commitment.   Minion makes it easy for me, though.  He’s such a keeper, I’ve encountered multiple pouty ladies spouting various levels of partner-envy, with comments such as, “I wish I had a husband who... (amazing thing my loving guy does for his lucky girl).”

But I have another trick, too.  I discovered shortly after Minion and I said “I do” that there’s such a thing as “wedding band dermatitis,” aka “ring rash.”  To get around the symptoms, I planted the tiny, velvet-lined, heart-shaped silver box that carried our rings on our wedding day (in a small pirate chest, borne by a 4-yr-old “knight”) at my bedside, where my Celtic dragon engraved tungsten carbide matrimonial adornment rests for the night each time I lay my head down until I get up, giving me the chance to make the same decision again, every morning of every day, or every time I leave our home, when the act of putting on the ring once more allows me to effectively say “I do,” all over, with just as much assurance as I did that first day.

Really, though, I feel like the fortunate one to have this condition, since most people who wear a wedding band all day every day never bother to take time to think about what that means, because it just gets overlooked and becomes forgotten.  Instead, I get the chance to consider the greater impact on a daily basis, and for me, that’s perfect, as I’ve never believed love is only an emotion, but rather, a decision, and a commitment, followed by action.  When I say I love my husband, that’s exactly what I mean, and that’s exactly what he gets.


I made a handful of promises that day... to cherish always the past we have shared, to relish in every present moment, and to eagerly seek out the future we will create together, whatever it may bring, come what may; to take my friend, my lover, my companion, and my equal, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, in triumph or failure, through thick and thin, to honor, and to keep, faithfully, forever.

I stood before my friends, my family, my beloved, and my God, and I swore to uphold my VOWS to our family.

My Dread Pirate Captain, I said “I DO” then, I still do now, and I always will — today and tomorrow, from this day, until my last day.

LJ Idol | Season 11 • Week 1 - Topic: RESOLUTION
This post has been brought to you by an association with the online writing community forum, LJ Idol.
If you have enjoyed this entry, please feel free to speak your piece, share the love, and pass it on...
                                                                                                            ...and thanks for stopping by.

*Full text of Vows to my husband can be found here:
From This Moment On — A Pledge to My Dread Pirate Captain On Our Wedding Day

**See the baby contract in its entirety here:
A Mother’s Pact — Maternal Vows of Love to Our Newborn Child

karmasoup

...and I guess it's over now, cause Idol has sucked me back in once more.

As in my previous attempt, earlier this season, I'll be playing as myself,

but writing from the misfitmama17 family journal.

Hope to be more successful this time around!  :)

karmasoup

Conspiracy

Conspiracy, I tell you.  That’s what this is.

All part of some bigger plot — some grand scheme to keep me out of LJ Idol.

No?

Crazy?

Okay, maybe.

But that’s what it feels like.

I write here because I don’t write anywhere else.  And I love to write.  I just never otherwise find make the time.  LJ Idol gives me the excuse discipline to knuckle down and actually get it done.

It’s the deadlines.

And the sharing.

Especially in an environment where I know people will bother to read it, and one or two might actually even care.

And, oh the stories!  You’re all such great storytellers, I can hardly wait to see what else you have to share each week.


I had an intro.  It was in my head.

...I just needed to get it out, get it onscreen, get it to you...


But...

But there were doctor’s appointments, and doctor’s appointments, and more doctor’s appointments... and did I mention doctor’s appointments?

...And then there were tons of trips to Walgreen’s... it took me forever to get down the right combination of vitamins.  Turns out I’m mildly anemic (Iron!  Vitamin C!  Magnesium & Calcium!), and have a severe vitamin D deficiency (apparently, it’s not normal for natives to spend 6 months out of the year without ever seeing the sun, and a pasty complexion that allows you to pass for white is NOT necessarily a good thing!), and there’s not enough DHA in my prenatal...

...I finally got it all figured out, but now I’m taking 12 pills a day.  I had to buy a special case, for morning, noon, and night doses.  I feel like an old person.  Or like my minion husband.

...But MAN!, It’s a lot of WORK being pregnant!


...And, ultimately, I got screwed out of writing my intro.

But...

          but, but, but...

...But I still want to write that intro!  That idea, it’s a great idea!

...And it’s still screaming in me to get out!

But...

...But I missed my opportunity.  And now the moment has passed.

*sigh*


I had an idea for Week 1.  It was in my head.

...I just needed to get it out, get it onscreen, get it to you...


But...

...But Thanksgiving weekend, you know...

...it was my turn to coordinate the dinner.

...That’s no small project when your family is 25 bare minimum if everyone shows up, and then add 10 additional outsiders imposed guests invited by the in-laws, then having to find recipes and buy groceries for making 6 – 8 extra dishes on top of what you’ve asked everyone else to bring to be sure there’s enough to go around, because you can’t expect your own family, much less the unknown wild cards to show restraint — not that Thanksgiving is a time for that — but then there’s a handful to whom the financial burden would be too great, so you’ve got to keep that in mind, not to mention dietary restrictions for Crohn’s disease, diabetes, and vegetarianism (oh, and let’s don’t forget pregnancy!) to account for, and, and...

...well, you’ve got no small project, lemme tell ya.

...But, MAN!, It’s a lot of WORK being the only girl in the family, the sole heir apparent to taking over the responsibilities of the grand matriarch, Hospitality Queen!


...And, ultimately, I got screwed out of writing my week 1 topic entry.

But...

          but, but, but...

...But I still want to write that entry!  That idea, it’s a great idea!

...And it’s still screaming in me to get out!

But...

...But I missed my opportunity.  And now the moment has passed.

*sigh*


I had an idea for Week 2.  It was in my head.

...I just needed to get it out, get it onscreen, get it to you...


But...

...But I’d been working the last 6 months at a really terrible job...

...a horrible, soul-sucking nightmare of a post at least 3-4 levels below my skillset, where I was being paid less money than I’d made for any contract in my field over the last 10 years...

...where I’d agreed to work because the position was supposed to have gone permanent within 90 days, and after 20 years of contracting, I was already thinking about settling down even before the baby, so I assumed the low rate was just an introduction to allow me to establish my value to them, after which we would negotiate terms for a reasonable living wage before making the deal...

...where the person who was responsible for me being there — to whom I officially reported — was so absentee I probably saw him a total of 5 times in 6 months for about 10 minutes each, tops...

...where at least 2 other people with no authority over my work found it necessary to periodically hassle me over the kinds of minutiae you might bother an entry level employee at a fast food joint about, not a seasoned professional with over 20 years of experience...

...where I was sardined into an 8’ x 10’ office which was shared (yes, that’s right, I said they put TWO desks, and TWO giant 4-drawer lateral file cabinets into an 8 x 10 sqft cubby) with a 63 yr-old imperious curmudgeon afflicted with THE WORST, most ingrained case of narcissistic personality disorder I’ve ever come across, who was completely incapable of going 300 seconds without muttering to himself TALKING to himself OUT LOUD (there was nothing the least bit under his breath about it... in fact, I’m pretty sure he was generally trying to get attention), or making some other, more annoying sound (he was constantly humming or whistling, but never an actual tune... if there’d been anything of a musical nature to it, I might have hummed or whistled along, but, no, it was mindless, tuneless, structureless semi-musical noise, somewhat reminiscent of being potentially inspired by something resembling music)... who was so insistent upon hearing the sound of his own voice that he was constantly running out of breath every time he spoke (not exaggerating.  EVERY.  DAMN.  TIME.) because he was so busy making sure no one else could possibly get a word in edgewise that he was trying to rush through every sentence without ever taking a breath so no one had the chance to break in... and he actually SUCKED on his own SPIT.  LOUDLY.  (Sorry.  Hard to even write that without squirming.  Seriously.  I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.), laughed at everything he said (YES.  EVERYTHING.  EVERY – SINGLE – SENTENCE was punctuated by the most ridiculous fake guffaw you’ve likely ever heard), and talked so loud on the phone (which, by the way was FOUR FEET from me) he could be heard at the FAR END of the building... who seemed to think he was the only one at the company who knew anything at all, and that everything about the way operations ran would be so much simpler if only they’d listened to him the 80 millionth time he’d been telling them what to do from the get go since the first time and for the last 20 years he’s been there, and who was otherwise pretty much completely negative and passive aggressive about everyone, and everything in general — except me, of course, because I guess he figured out pretty quickly that I actually knew what I was doing, and apparently, the last 5 people in that position did NOT.

...(I guess that’s what happens when you hire someone overqualified.  You get to see how things might work if you were actually willing to pay someone with useful skills to do the job, rather than plucking the next random luck-of-the-draw yahoo from out of whichever fly by night employment agency happens to cold call you next, and hoping they will sit in the chair and bang on the keys long enough to eventually accidentally write the collective works of Shakespeare)...

...where 90 days passed, and then 120, and then 150, with no conversation about me being hired on (to which I would have had TWO conditions... besides a salary not meant for a teenager, I’d need MY OWN OFFICE!!!), each one with us having to tighten our belt to the point of living off credit cards, to the point that I could no longer afford to wait, and had been looking for a new job...

...(which, by the way, I had been doing for a while, and was also doing during intro week, and week 1, as well, which takes a lot out of you, especially when you have no time to write for Idol look for a job while you’re working, because you’re doing the work of three people, and you could sit at your desk for 10 hours straight, from 7AM to 5PM, with no break for lunch, just a sandwich at your desk, and occasional trips to the potty, once you finally realize that your leg has been shaking for the last half hour because you were trying to get to a good stopping place to stem the tidal wave of oncoming work that never slows down from crashing over you, and the phones are constantly ringing off the hook, because the place is short staffed, because they’ve gotten rid of 4 people in the few months you’ve been there, and there are only 22 employees in the whole place to begin with, and almost everyone is related to each other, and the owner bought an entire company in Alabama just to give his nephew something to do, and now they’re closing it down, because the nephew couldn’t get it done, so now those phones are rolling up here, too, and hey, would you mind while you’re at it, since you have such a nice phone voice, going ahead and answering the phone, too, cause everyone knows that purchasing and accounts payable doesn’t really require so much attention to detail that you can’t also handle and manage the additional distraction of 16 interruptions per hour)...

...and I’d had a few phone interviews, and at least a couple in person, and I’d gone to the trouble to have my minion husband courier hand written thank you cards with a chocolate attached to the interviewers the morning after (man, I REALLY wanted out of that job!!!), and a week had gone by, and then two (one of which was Thanksgiving week), and then nearly three, and I’d almost given up, when I decided to write one more letter of continued interest, and popped it off, to find out the next day...

I GOT THE JOB!!!

...which was GREAT news,

...BUT,

...every night that week, there was something different to be done toward my background check.  There were forms to be filled out, and a cup to be peed in (they can’t legally divulge anything other than whether or not I’m on drugs, right?  I mean, my pee being nearly orange or green, depending on the time of day because of all the dang vitamins doesn’t count against me, and, they’re not allowed to reveal that I’m pregnant, right???), and videos to watch, and signatures to get notarized...


...But, MAN!, It’s a lot of WORK leaving a miserable, lousy, teeth gritting, mind numbing grindstone, and getting hired to your dream job!

...And, ultimately, I got screwed out of writing my week 2 topic entry.

But...

          but, but, but...

...But I still want to write that entry!  That idea, it’s a great idea!

...And it’s still screaming in me to get out!

But...

...But I missed my opportunity.  And now the moment has passed.

*sigh*


I had an idea for this week.  It was in my head.

...I just needed to get it out, get it onscreen, get it to you...


But...

...But my minion husband works from home.  He works from home, and we only have one car between us, so when we go out on the weekend, he drives.  He drives, because he otherwise never leaves the house, so he likes to be in the driver’s seat, because he otherwise never gets to drive the car, because I have it for work, and I let him, because I like to be in the passenger’s seat and to be driven, because I otherwise have to drive myself everywhere (and, man, it is getting harder and harder to buckle that seatbelt!), and I like to just relax and let him think he’s in charge take care of me sometimes.

...So I found out this weekend that the reason he:

• busted not one, but TWO tires (count them – uno, dos) two years ago — the SAME exact tire on the same exact wheel on the same exact pothole in the same exact place on the same exact day of the week at the same exact time exactly one week later,

...and...

• wrecked my front axle (YES.  HE managed to BREAK my front AXLE in TWO) on a pothole the size of a MOON CRATER about a year ago (which, btw, I’m STILL making payments on... I was fortunate to have been working at the time at a car dealership which agreed to let me make payments on it... which was about very nearly the ONLY thing worthwhile about working at that place!)

...and...

• drove my 2001 Buick (this is a vehicle with the ground clearance of a tortoise) over a speed bump the height of a pair of shinkickers (this road block was clearly intended to completely incapacitate all intruders), thereby busting the driver’s side strut assembly

...is because apparently, he has low NIGHT VISION (he says his mother had it, too.  Cause THAT makes a difference???).  THIS I learn after 3 years of social acquaintance, plus 3 years of cohabitation, plus 1 year of marriage, plus $1,850 in CAR REPAIRS.  (Mind you, this is an older vehicle that could actually USE a fair few preventative maintenance car repairs here and there, to keep in her in good shape.  This is upkeep, however, she is NOT getting, because we are busy living hand to mouth off credit cards, and spending $1850 in car repairs we don’t need.)

SO, I’ve been having to ride the bus this week, because there was a snow storm on Monday that filled up the shop where we normally take the car, and we couldn’t get in until yesterday.  That’s to MY BRAND NEW JOB THAT STARTED ON MONDAY. 

It’s a half hour commute by car with no traffic, 50 minutes with traffic.  But, on public transit, you can never just get from here to there.  No.  You have to go from point A, in to the spokes of the wheel at point L, to get back out to the outer rim at point B.  So, I leave the house at quarter to 6 in the morning to walk 10 minutes in sub zero weather to catch the bus that takes me to a transit center where I stand outside for 15 minutes in sub zero weather until I can get on another bus that takes me to another transit center where I stand outside for another 15 minutes in sub zero weather until I can get on another bus that that drops me off 10 minutes from my office at quarter after 8AM.  Then I work for 8 hours.  Then I walk 15 minutes in sub zero weather (and do that whole scenario in reverse) until I reach my house at quarter after 7PM,

...completely exhausted,

...with just enough energy left to eat a lovely, hot, home-cooked meal my minion husband has prepared for me, and then fall into bed, if I don’t have anything pressing I have to first (like call a tow truck to bring our busted wheel tire to the car shop, for example).

There are 1,000 steps from the corner where the bus drops me off in the morning to my office.  But there are no buildings or trees to block the wind.  And it beats me.  Sideways.  But I’m counting steps, and I make it.  THREE DAYS IN A ROW.

There are only 500 steps from the corner where the bus drops me off at night to my driveway.  But it’s all uphill.  And the sun has long since gone down.  (It’s winter in Minnesota.  The moon lights the way for most of my morning commute, and watches over the evening trip the whole way home, also.)  And I’m PREGNANT.  I get winded GOING UP STAIRS.  (This is apparently normal, I’m told... my physical therapist says she gets winded just reading stories to her 2-yr-old.  She's 10 weeks farther along than me.)  At 200 steps I have to take a rest, and struggle for breath.  At 300 steps I have to take a rest, and try not to cry.  At 400 steps, I can see my house, and I just want to BE THERE, so I push through.

And my minion husband is there waiting for me, and he has CLEANED MY ROOM.

...and I remember why I love him.



...But, MAN!, It’s a lot of WORK being a one car household!

...And, ultimately, I got screwed out of writing my week 3 topic entry.

But...

          but, but, but...

...But I still want to write that entry!  That idea, it’s a great idea!

...And it’s still screaming in me to get out!

But...

...But I missed my opportunity.  And now the moment has passed.

*sigh*


Yes, I have been screwed at every turn at nearly every weeknight opportunity there has been to write so far, and no, I don’t have time to write at work, and sure, I could have maybe tried to do some writing on the weekends, but between the busy family holiday schedule, and the fact that my husband works nights, and I work days, and I only have about 2 hours a day of non-scheduled time I can use, because being pregnant means I otherwise require more rest, our quality time together is at a premium, and neither of us wants to spend it in front of the computer.


But...

...Here’s the thing.  The moment hasn’t really passed.  Minion and I are still going to have a baby in 6 months.  And I still want to say all those things I have in my head to share with our unborn child.  I’m just not really doing so great with deadlines right now.

So, this is not goodbye.  It’s just... not the place for this.

I’m going to continue writing.

I’m going to put out that intro, giving insight into why this is important.

...And that explanation of how we came to name our child, and what it means for the future of our progeny...

...And that appeal to my kid to know how, when, and who to trust...

...And that story of that time I did that stupid thing, with the warning that our offspring should try to avoid the same mistake...

...And whatever other notions the topics inspire me to say to our baby, and quite a few others that aren’t even spurred by the topics, because when you’re pregnant, especially, a week is most definitely only 7 days, and every week, something is different, the world has changed somehow.

And it only roller coaster from here.


...So...

...If you want to stick around for the ride, friend my baby mama account, misfitmama17.  I’ll be around.  Minion (mamas_minion) will still be writing.  He’s having a baby, too, but, I’m doing most of the work, so, he’s got a lot more time than I do!  ;)

You might see some of the posts in the home game, if I’m so inclined, or if I get enough requests to share.  And, maybe, if I’ve got a good rhythm going, I’ll come back for SCI.  Because the only win that matters to me, in the end, is the health and wellbeing of our baby.

Until then...

Peace, love, and joy to all.


LJ Idol | Season 10 • Week X - Topic: SACRIFICE
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karmasoup

BLACK LIVES MATTER

I’ve been reading the “also” or “too” vs. “only” debate about the “campaign slogan” of this movement for several weeks now, across multiple sources online, and I haven’t weighed in, because I know that when I first heard of their tagline, my initial, knee-jerk, emotional gut reaction was to think, “Now, hey, wait a minute . . .  Blacks aren’t the only minority being marginalized in this country . . .

•  Women are still struggling to fight against proposed legislation
    that would set back rights for half the general population
    to a time before our grandparent’s generation, making us
    little more than indentured servants to our male counterparts,
    effectively reducing us to glorified baby-making factories,
    better seen than heard.

•  Native Americans in every corner of the nation are having
    the sacred ancestral tribal lands that support their culture
    and sustain their people stripped from them with the stroke
    of a pen, as if the ink on the treaties that “gave” it to them
    had dried up and disappeared, like dust in the wind
    with the passage of time.

•  Homosexuals who simply want to have the same freedoms
    the rest of the nation takes for granted are still having to fight
    for basic HUMAN rights, even after the passage of laws
    that have already granted it to them.

•  Latin Americans are disregarded as subhuman.

•  Jews are generally distrusted.

•  Asian culture is ransacked, twisted, and appropriated, as is
    anything else that white America finds shiny and somehow valuable,
    and nearly every person of non-anglo descent, with non-euro-
    heritage is expected to assimilate, homogenize, speak OUR language,
    blend in, melt away, and disappear into the collective “US.”

•  Most other cultures are barely given a grunt of recognition,
    and every religion — or even, a carefully chosen lack of religion —
    that doesn’t align with the majority is dismissed as irrelevant,
    while efforts of multiple controlling powers blatantly seeking
    to turn our government into a THEOCRACY — in order to thereby
    *legally* allow for mass discrimination of ALL non-conforming
    ideologies — are hurtling U.S. citizenry at an alarming speed
    toward our very own American CRUSADES.

•  The middle class is disappearing as the working class continues
    to plummet towards or even over the poverty line, while our
    legislators — predominantly very old, mostly white, mostly male,
    mostly millionaires, who *cannot possibly* have ANY understanding
    of the common man — grow fat on the spoils of lying in bed with,
    and licking the boots of corporations whose leaders have put such
    a distance between themselves and the labor force that established
    their wealth, that they steadily drive us all to the brink of a
    modern day French Revolution.

Surely the issues of all these downtrodden should be considered just as much of a priority?

Don’t ALL lives matter?”

... ... ...

Those WERE my first thoughts.

But then I thought of the position that the BLM movement was taking, the justification of their indignation, and the righteousness of their cause, and I dismissed my first response as the rumblings of insecurity bred from white-passable privilege (which isn’t quite the same as white privilege, but close enough in nearly every respect that makes a difference).  I considered that maybe, if even I, with my circular thinking, logical minded, generally objective perspective — having to skip a beat, take a breath and check myself before reaching a more supportive conclusion — could nearly find my own impressions lumped in with that of the ignorant masses, then maybe the phrase *COULD* benefit from a minor clarification in wording...?

You see, in my head, I knew the saying didn’t mean *ONLY* BLACK Lives Matter, but, to reach through to the hearts of people who need most to get this message, maybe it could use a touch of tweaking?  A bit of help to make certain that what it did mean came across effectively...?

Perhaps:

“Black Lives Matter, TOO.” ( ??? )

or maybe,

“Black Lives ALSO Matter.”   ( ??? )

You know?  Like, let’s go ahead and get the air cleared up front, in case, God forbid, someone not in support of this movement should mistakenly assume that people who want to be free to LIVE as the rest of us do are somehow asking for more than they deserve, or attempting to encroach on anything someone else already has.

... ... ...

Oh, I’m sorry, did that come across as ridiculous?

Maybe even a little bit racist???

Yeah, it did to me, too.  Even in my own mind, I couldn’t defend that thought, so I got to thinking about it even further, and the conclusion I came to, I can neither think, nor speak, nor even write about without a lump in the back of my throat, and tears swelling up in my eyes.

... ... ...

Once I got my head screwed on straight, I realized, there is absolutely NO value in anyone who is NOT black sitting around on any social media site with anyone else who is NOT black having any length of discussion about whether this saying can or can’t be misinterpreted, or should or shouldn’t be modified for the sake of clarity.

Because...

Black people KNOW what they mean.

And, more importantly...

THEY HAVE SAID IT.

The question should NOT be about whether or not this saying needs ANY further clarification.

It DOESN’T.

There IS NO **implied** “ALSO.” There IS NO silent “TOO.”

The word “ONLY” is only in your imagination.


Black people are standing together collectively, screaming at the top of their lungs like Whos on a speck of sand in a thistle, to TELL the world simply that BLACK LIVES MATTER.  Not because they matter more than anyone else’s.  Not even because they matter “just as much” as yours do.  But simply BECAUSE they matter.  And you and I, from a place of privilege, can debate til the cows come home what else surely *must* be subliminally included in that statement, or what other, additional message clearly must be either meant by it or derived from it, because we are so far removed from a world in which such a statement needs to be made that we cannot even relate to the concept enough to understand it.  The fact remains that, telling the world our lives matter is NOT, and never has been, a necessity.  It is a **foregone conclusion.**

Over the course of more than 4 decades of water under all my crossed bridges thus far, I have never had to INFORM *anyone* in my existence that MY LIFE matters, because everything about my 40-some years on this terrestrial plane has demonstrated to me, it’s just assumed, EVERYONE KNOWS.  And that is because,

I’M NOT BLACK.

You see, that’s why this issue can’t be compared with women’s rights.  Or gay freedoms.  Or religious privilege.  Or social injustice.  Or any cultural stigmatism.  Because they’re NOT the same.

... ... ...

People who’ve emigrated here from another way of life carried with them their shared history and their family name, their traditions and ethics, their hopes and dreams of a new world, and their intentions for what would be passed down from generation to generation after generation in this land of safety, asylum, freedom, opportunity, or whatever other promise of the American Dream brought them to our borders.  But the same can’t be said of blacks.  What is their shared culture heritage?  Slavery?  Oppression?  Marginalization?  Displacement?  Disenfranchisement?  Systematic, institutionalized injustice?

You can say all you want to that black people have fought for and won their civil rights.  Sure, we have an African American in the White House.  And we could probably even call him a Kenyan American, if he wanted us to, because we know where his lineage originates.  But his wife, Michelle, she’s from... what, Chicago?  If you take most any person in this country who is black and trace their family tree, where is it going to lead?  We throw a continent in front of the name “American” for people we identify as “black,” because the whole of that vast, expansive land mass across the ocean is the closest most of us can get to knowing who they are or where they’ve come from, as if labeling an entire group of people “African American,” will somehow provide unity and conformity, like it’s some sort of nationality or ethnicity — as if that would give them back the shared cultural heritage whites stole from them.  But the truth is, all “blacks” really can be certain they have in common is that they are darker than some of the rest of us.  As if that’s all that really matters.


We who like to think of ourselves as caring and compassionate, as understanding and objective, as loving, and liberal... we know that nothing about any human’s way of life should be boiled down to no more than a byproduct of a person’s skin tone.  But, we also know that, sometimes, it does.  More than anyone else in this country, it is “blacks” who have grown up never being allowed to forget that ugly truth, because of all the lifelong ramifications that automatically comes along with having that skin tone, despite *every* effort of every civil rights leader.  We stand beside those who would labor against this unfortunate reality, and we offer our voices to the outcry, and our efforts to the work that is still needed.  But we can’t know this need the way they do, because we haven’t lived the reality they have lived—the reality they must still face, every day of their lives.

That reality is, black people aren’t fighting for rights.  Or freedom.  Or privilege.  Or better wages.  Or justice.  Or equality.  These very basic HUMAN needs might ALL be desired, and even necessary.  But the luxury — the privilege — of being able to seek out those bare necessities is not right now priority number one on the agenda of most black people these days, because there is an even MORE *pressing* objective.  Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness can be discussed later, at such a time when the house is not on fire.

Black people are fighting to LIVE.  Black people are fighting just to SURVIVE.  Black people are fighting FOR THEIR LIVES, because they’re NOT being allowed just to LIVE as you and I do.  The first and foremost of those truths we hold to be self-evident, that our Declaration of Independence defines as endowed to us by our Creator, has not been achieved for Black people.  The right to LIFE — a Constitutional guarantee for ALL — is one that was never fully bestowed upon Blacks.

Black people are fighting to be able to walk out their door and NOT worry, just as you and I do not worry, that in the course of going about their everyday lives, that they might be KILLED — just for being black.  They are fighting to live in a world unrecognizable from our own — a world in which, if such a terrible tragedy were to occur, it would be such a rarity as to garner main stream media attention, and it would be met with both national outrage and swift justice.

•  Black people cannot be certain, as you and I are every day,
    that they can walk down any street in this land of the FREE,
    and not be shot in the chest at point blank range, a mere
    few yards from their own door to safety, for the heinous
    crime of “looking suspicious,” because of choice in wardrobe.

•  Black people cannot be assured, as you and I would be,
    that in the course of trying to intervene in a fight,
    they might not be accused of such a minor crime as
    would barely warrant so much as a ticket for a white man,
    presumed guilty on the spot, and subsequently CHOKED to death.

•  Black people cannot go to work, as you and I would,
    confident in the knowledge that they will not be
    SHOT IN THE BACK at their place of business because
    someone WHITE mistakenly had the idea that something
    about their job was not entirely above board.

•  Black people cannot drive an automobile, as you and I would,
    in their own familiar neighborhoods, to their family homes,
    knowing that they will arrive safely at their destination
    without being mistaken for someone else, SECRETLY followed,
    stalked by a PLAINCLOTHES officer in an UNMARKED vehicle,
    and shot multiple times through the back of their own car.

•  Black people cannot, as you and I might, simply walk to the
    grocery store with their family and a handful of friends,
    without being attacked without warning by a rogue battalion
    of NON-UNIFORMED police with military grade assault weapons.

•  Black people cannot peaceably live wherever they can afford to,
    as you and I do, if where they can afford to live is public housing,
    without concern that their residential facility will be meticulously
    patrolled floor by floor, IN SEARCH OF A CRIME IN PROGRESS — a zealous
    pursuit assured to turn up perpetrators guilty of being black
    in the unlit stairwell of their own tenement building, which of course,
    naturally provokes the instinctive reaction to shoot to kill.

•  Black people cannot hang out at the mall, as you and I might,
    or even relax in their own homes, as you and I do,
    nor even sleep in their own beds at night, as you and I will,
    satisfied that they can answer their own front door,
suffer a life-threatening health condition, have a malfunctioning brake light,
walk down the street with a white person, or even just
go about their normal daily routine, without fear of being
searched, beaten, maced, smothered, tazed, bombed, or shot,
over a case of mistaken identity, bad information, because someone
 got the numbers on a house wrong, because some eager beaver is
showing off for the reality TV film crew, or because someone
happens to match a certain description — one that need not go
 any further than “black.”

And so, black people are resorting, in anger, in fear, and in desperation, to telling the world that:

***BLACK LIVES MATTER***

...because the realities black people must face every day suggest to them that

THE WORLD DOESN’T KNOW.

... ... ...

In just under 7 weeks, I will stand before my God, my family, my friends and loved ones, and I will promise my life to the man I love.  And when we raise our children, they will be Native American and Irish, as well as Moroccan, East Indian, and French.  But it doesn’t matter how many colors go into making up their skin tone, because to the rest of the world, all they will be is BLACK.

So I will have to train my son when he learns to drive, to never go above the speed limit, and to always keep his license valid, proof of insurance in the car, his tabs up to date, his headlamps and taillights functional, his muffler in good working condition, and wear his seat belt, in the hopes that he doesn’t go around with any avoidable reasons to get pulled over.  I will make sure he drives a car that isn’t too flashy, but not too rusted out, either.  And whether he is an athlete, a band geek, a mathematician, an artist, a musician, or a science nerd, I will teach him to dress in a manner that could never cause him to be mistaken for a common criminal.  I will train him for the inevitable day when he is pulled over for any reason, or, more likely, for no reason at all, to hold out his empty hands, palms up, to show they are devoid of wallets, cell phones, pocket knives, pill bottles, or broom handles, and to be cooperative, deferential, and polite.

I will train my daughter to speak her mind, and to protect herself, but I will make sure that she presents herself in attire, in demeanor, in word and in deed respectably, and that she knows how to make her insights known without allowing for her intelligence, her personal pride, her sense of fairness, her understanding of what’s right, and her general grasp of basic human decency to be deliberately mistaken for belligerence, rebellion, or sass.  (This will be especially hard for ME to teach her, because she will be MY daughter, and I’ve never been very good at that, myself.)  I will teach her to show the proper deference — say Yes Ma’am, no Sir, etc. — in situations when she is vulnerable to persons in authority with the power to abuse her, and to smile so hard her teeth hurt, if that’s what it takes, even if she has to choke back tears.

I will do this for my family, not because I want them to get a good grade in class, or to be allowed onto the football team or the cheerleading squad or the band trip or the school play.  Not because I want them to get a leg up with their boss, or climb another rung on the corporate ladder.  And not even because I want them to be decent, respectable citizens, though if that’s an added bonus, I’ll take it.  But I will train my children to do what needs to be done to keep them safe in this world, because every time they walk out my front door — regardless of anything else I might desire for their future, and no matter what I may think of whatever they might do outside the realm of my protection — what I will want most of all, is for them to COME HOME.  I hope that everything I have been through in my life up until that point will have prepared me to be up to the challenge of raising black children.  And I pray, every day, that all members of my household will grow up in a world which will have at some point learned,

BLACK LIVES **DO** MATTER.



Trayvon Martin  |  Eric Garner  |  Ousmane Zongo  |  Prince Jones  |  James Brissette  |  Ronald Madison  |  Akai Gurley  |  Jordan Baker  |  McKenzie Cochran  |  Tarika Wilson  |  Aiyana Jones  |  Yvette Smith  |  David Washington  |  Walter Scott  |  Jeremy Lake  |  Shem Walker  |  Carlos Alcis  |  Robert Davis  |  David Washington  |  Luis Rodriguez  |  Dante Parker  |  Alberta Spruill  |  Aaron Campbell  |  Joseph Burke-Monerville  |  John Adams  |  James Blake  |  Amadou Diallo  |  Rekia Boyd  |  Freddie Gray  |  Rumain Brisbon  |  Abner Louima

karmasoup

Ascendance

“In Days of Darkness, when the Mother of Majesty
  bears upon the Realm of all who live
  the Coming of Endless Night,
  From the Bosom of Blood, A Champion of her Progeny –
   a Sapphire borne from Silver and Gold –
  Will raise the Kingdom of Dragons
   within the Cradle of Man
   to reign eternal upon the land.”

...A prophecy, known among the children of Vaghdystra, bred from dragons and men, since the time of the Basiblis Wars, all but forgotten for over 2,000 years, to all but the most devoted of believers, and those dedicated to the ancient wisdom of the Wyvergen ancestors. 

It has became legend, told at bedtime to children — as stories of heroism and promise to the faithful of the Queen of Darkness, as tales of warning to her enemies.  It would impact the lives in this chronicle more profoundly than any of them could have imagined or foretold.



In those days, rule of Wyvragen kingdoms passed naturally from each reigning sovereign to his or her heir, but maintaining the monarchy was not always a given for the line, nor even a simple task.  Leadership was determined not by blood, but by whomever had the greater power and will.  For this reason, Wyvergen kingdoms were often in turmoil, regularly undergoing many rapid and often violently brutal changes from one crowned head to another.  And yet, there remained many among their peoples who believed that the Bazylaethne tribe was the only true clan with a proper claim to rule any Wyvergen kingdom by birthright, as theirs is the only legacy whose lineage can be traced directly to the Time of Origin, when Vaghdystra herself created Dragons from Men.  But, it was mostly a moot point, since a true kingdom of Wyvergen had not been seen in centuries, due to their dwindling numbers and diminished social status in the known world as a result of the Basiblis Wars.

This is the story of their rise to power. . .