Camping, Take 2

Last year, we took a family camping trip.  Me, Hubs, the kiddos, and my parents.  My mother fell down a slope and broke her ankle.  This resulted in her and Dad heading to the hospital, while Mark and I patrolled four kids who were detoxing from electronics.  It was…rough.  So initially when I got the idea to go camping again, I was a little wary.  This time it would be just me and Mark…what if something goes wrong?

I pushed this thought out of my head with other thoughts, like “you have done nothing this horrible boring summer” and “the nearest hospital is only 19 minutes away-you can drive that while sick.” 

And so, I planned a camping trip for the two of us for our anniversary.  We are very excited.  We have never gone anywhere together.  10 years.  Nowhere.

We have been across state to visit his family a few times, but all our time was spent with them.  We had no honeymoon, no vacations, no weekend getaways.  This will be our very first, and here’s hoping it’s not one of those things we probably should have done before we got married.

I have two worries.  One is that I will get sick.  The other is that I will fight with Mark.

Now, sick or injured, I have an emergency plan, and a backup emergency plan, and I am confident in my current health.  No flareups for six days now, and that’s a very good sign. 

But, Hubs…

I love my husband, but he has a frustration issue.  Even small frustrations have triggered anger and rage.  He works on it, so now it’s mostly just big things that set him off (well, and video games…though we could debate whether that’s a “big thing.”)  The problem is, I have a rage issue myself, so when he gets frustrated by, say, A VIDEO GAME, and yells and throws a controller, my initial reaction is to throw something as well because I am angry that he is throwing things.  Yes, I see the insanity in that, but it is what it is.

I am afraid we will, say, set up an air mattress, and one or both of us will get frustrated, then enrage the other somehow, resulting in me throwing his belongings into a creek.  Or vice versa.

We rarely fight, but this is the one thing that makes us blow: both being frustrated at once.  It is rarely the other person, it is almost always the situation, but then we of course turn on each other like wild wolves.

But I have high hopes, because mostly this does not happen at the same time.  I can talk him off a ledge.  He can talk me off one, too.  But if we’re both pissed, just stand back.  And hope we’re not pissed at you.

So I’m going to be well and I’m going to have no relationship worries because I’m going to have a perfect trip because we deserve it, damnit.  10 years with this guy!  A miracle, I tell you.  I will be sure to tell you about it when I get back.

Here’s hoping no one falls down a slope. 

(That last lines for you, Ma.)

Hubs and me, doing what we plan to do all weekend…only not in the middle of the city.

Life and Death and Fishing

As previously mentioned, I have been super sick this month.  I don’t know why.  I have been doing all the things I am supposed to have been doing, and my mental health has been great.  So what the what, gastroparesis?  On Friday, Hubs and I are going camping for our anniversary.  I am determined to stay well and be well for this event.  Problem is, the worry of getting sick stresses me out, and stress makes me sick. It’s become a pray and hope scenario.

Every day that I wake up feeling well, I consider to be a tiny miracle.  If gastroparesis has taught me nothing else, it is to savor each day and try to make the best of it, because a lot of the time my days get ruined.  I have a new outlook on life itself, which is causing me to be grateful for the little things.  I am always looking for silver linings in the chaos, and this is the biggest one:  my appreciation for living.

One of the things that I have done to help my physical and mental self is take up fishing.  I got my license in May and Hubs bought me a pole for my birthday, and I have been taking quite an interest in it.  My favorite part right now is learning the different types of fish.  I literally knew nothing about fishing at all; Hubs has a basic knowledge, but nothing fancy.  So, we have been teaching ourselves as we go.

One of our learning helpers is a fisherman/YouTuber by the name of Leif Steffny.  He has a show called North West Fishing Secrets, and we watch it every week.  His M.O. is to catch some fish, and then cook them up shore-side.  It combines Hubs love of fishing and cooking, so it’s our #1 YouTube video experience.  We have learned a lot form him, because he talks about fishing as though he is talking to someone who is new to the sport, like us.  He is always sure to explain everything he is using and doing, and we learn something new each week. 

Now, one of the things we learned, as this gentleman both catches and cooks his fish, is how to kill one.

It looked really easy: you just bonk it on the head, but the reality is a little harsher, to me.

I caught a trout this weekend.  Not a big one, but big enough that he managed to swallow the entire hook right down into his stomach.  There was no way to get it out; he was bleeding.  We could cut the line and let him die in the water.  We could leave it and let him asphyxiate on land.  Or we could bonk him on the head. 

I held him in my left hand while Mark did what had to be done.  It looked so easy in the videos.   But then, I felt it…shaking and shivering my hand, spasming because it was dying.  It was maybe three seconds, but even that felt too long.  I ached for that fishie.

When it stopped moving, I dropped it to the ground.  Mark told me his death wouldn’t be in vain…we couldn’t eat it, but he would take it home and show me how to gut and filet a fish, and at least it would teach me something, I figured.

But I can’t forget what it felt like in my hand.

K told me she wants to go hunting someday and I grimaced (this was the same day as the fish.) I never wanted to go hunting, because I can’t imagine killing Bambi.  (Plus, the hating guns thing.)  But apparently I’m fine with killing Nemo?  Or am I?

I’m not going to give up fishing because the joy and health it has brought me far outweighs that sad moment with the fish in my hand.  And that’s kind of how I feel about most of my life right now.  I’m not going to let my good days get ruined by the weight of the bad ones.  I try very hard to make each moment count, now, in a way that I did not do before, and that is very important to me.  The moment with the fish was devastating, but the fact that I was out in the sun with my husband and daughters was the exact opposite.  It was rejuvenating and wonderful and healing.  That little fishie didn’t make it, but I was okay, I was still breathing, and I didn’t feel the pain of a hook in my belly, for the first time in a while.

Gooey Brain and Puzzle Pieces

Today, my brain is a vat of goo.  For no particular reason than my body has recently been sapping all energy it creates in an effort to heal itself from whatever-the-crap happened to me last week.  I was pleasantly surprised to find this morning that I felt well…good, even…and could stomach some coffee.  Took me a little while to wake up and get going, but once I did, I was doing okay.  But my brain was a little foggy.  I messaged Sahar to check her progress.  Yesterday, she did the thing and moved her belongings from Kentucky to Cleveland, inching ever closer to me. 

She is very tired.  Her brain is a vat of goo, because she just loaded a house into a truck, drove six hours, and is now unloading a truck into a house.

Yet she is up and moving and unpacking a U-Haul somewhere and I am up and consuming coffee and typing furiously because Thursday is blog day.  In fact, I have a list of tasks to accomplish today and they all take brain power, but as I said before, my brain is a vat of goo.  Body in desperate need of repair, it has taken all of my energies and put them towards a singular goal, leaving very little for my brain to run on.

The end result is that I’m typing my blog with little idea what I’m even writing about.  It has been such a strange week for me, not just because of the illness.  I am heavily medicated when I am sick, so time kind of globs together into an intangible mess.  Afterwards, I feel like I have to put together the puzzle pieces.

Which brings me to something cool that happened while I was out. 

(Oh.  Yeah.  That’s what you were going to blog about, you goo-brained idiot.)

So, sometimes, Twitter brings me cool connects.  Most recently, I was introduced to one Jonathan Stringfellow, who hosts a poetry radio show called No Strangers Here at Colombia University in Georgia.  He contacted me about doing a review and analysis of my book on his show.  I was delighted, on a personal level.  See, my dad had a radio show back in college, and I always thought that would have been so cool to get involved in.  My small school that I was only at for a year didn’t have a station, so it was never an option for me, but now this guy wants to talk about me on his program?  How neat!

He read my collection and emailed me a few times to discuss which poems he would be sharing with his listeners.  One comment he made in his emails was how he felt that the poems were like puzzle pieces that fit together to make a larger picture.  I appreciated this viewpoint especially, as I do think of it as a narrative, and each poem reveals a slight bit more of the struggle that I faced.

Anyway, he recorded it mid-August, but it came out while I was in my hospital haze.  You can listen to it right here if you are so inclined.  I truly am thankful for his thoughts, and it is a lovely little program that I will continue to listen to even though I don’t go to Colombia University in Georgia. 

Now, I am off to do some writing work and some personal life work and then some relaxation so that my brain can gelatinize now that my body is feeling better.  This weekend brings with it kiddos and likely some fishing and the return of football and dinner with Sharon and Kevin-all things I am looking forward to.  All things I am hoping my body is on board with, too. My brain definitely hopes to be.

On Books and Tummy-Aches.

It is midafternoon on a Monday, usually a time when I am far done with my blog, but today was a holiday, and this week has been strange.

I was sick, unfortunately, pretty much all week.  It was terrible and I have no desire to rehash it so let’s just call last week a wash and move on.

I came across a photo the other day, below.  Me and Kevin, maybe four-years-old.  I am sick and lying on the sofa, and he is sitting beside me, reading a book.

I don’t read much anymore because it is difficult for me, what with my eyes.  I do more now than before I got new glasses, but without bifocals it’s still tricky.  I have had two Stephen King’s sitting beside my bed for months that are unfinished.

And then today, Kevin gave me about fifteen more. 

While downsizing his life, he decided to get rid of his King collection and gave it to me, which is awesome, but now means that A. I need more bookshelves, and B. My reading list has just expanded greatly.  They’re all books I have yet to read, or have read once and didn’t have a copy of. 

Anyway, this special delivery reminded me of that little picture of a sad and sick Briggy being soothed by the fake-reading of a four-year-old Kevvie.  I was really sick this week, and I had a few plans with my bud that ended up having to be postponed because of it.  If there is anything worse than the physical pain that comes with gastroparesis, there is the mental anguish of always feeling like you’re ruining something by getting sick.  Every plan I have to cancel or rearrange haunts me.  I hate it.

Today, I hate the whole damn thing.

But tomorrow, who knows…maybe I will make a space on my bookshelf.  Maybe I will choose a new King novel to devour, hoping that it will get me back to the other two languishing on my nightstand.  Maybe I will read something, and the words will seep into my eyeballs and though my pores and wind their way though my body, and I will be healed by a story or tale or poem…little healings, that keep me going.

Always gotta keep going.

wOrdpress for lyfe.

This is a delayed post as I spent yesterday in the ER.  I’m ok now…just tired and worn down.  But I shall persevere.  Anyways…

Well, I mean, I guess.  Ok.  I’ll do it.

Once upon a time I started a blog on WordPress.com, and eventually I revamped it but stayed on the platform, and then came the day when I realized I needed a domain name like a grownup.  So, I shopped around, and at the end of the day…yeah.  WordPress.  Whatever.

I will tell you upfront that I know nothing about web hosting.  It’s all foreign to me, and all my attempts to learn something have just resulted in me banging my head against a wall.  So, the end result seemed to be obvious: just buy a plan through the site you’re already using.

But, my blog isn’t my main focus anymore.  Yes, I still update twice a week and will continue to do so as long as it is feasible.  However, I am also trying to sell a book, create another, and I have something waiting in a publishing queue that could happen at any moment.  It was brought to my attention that what I really need now is an author website.

For a few months, imposter syndrome kept me from entertaining such fanciful ideas, such that I was important enough to warrant my own website.  But the logic was sound.  I wanted a place that consolidated my blog, my around-the-web writings, and a place to hype my book.  Then one day, WordPress emailed to tell me of a flash sale, and I saw no reason not to go for it. 

Hence the debut of brigidhannon.com.

Over the weekend, I changed my social medias to reflect the new website.  In the past, they reflected my blog: the breakfast banner, the side-eye photo, the Brigid Hamandeggs moniker.  All of which I love, but are the Brigid of 2018, when I first started my blog, not 2020, where I stand now.  My handle on pretty much everything is hamneggs716 and will remain as such, but otherwise, it is time for actual representation of myself.

More than one person has discussed my “brand” with me this week, which still feels like a silly concept, but is one I have to consider nonetheless.  I am moving from my Ham ‘N Eggs brand into the brand of myself, Brigid Hannon.

This is a big thing.  See, I always kept things like my blog and Twitter and such fairly anonymous.  I did this for two reasons: 1. I was crippled with anxiety about my own abilities, and 2. I wanted to get a job.  Nowadays, I would not take a job that was not okay with the words I put out, and my expression of myself.  However, in the past, I hid my writing, because I was working with children.  You never know when a parent might see you drop an f-bomb and suddenly have a problem with your employer.  Seriously, I have seen it happen.  So, I tried to keep myself as silent as I could and even considered a pen name. 

But see…I love my name.  It’s the reason I never legally took Mark’s.  And I want my name on my work. So, a couple years ago, I took a deep breath and I submitted to a few journals, and now look.  JUST LOOK.  I have a book and a website and I was published in my hometown newspaper, and I have so much more upcoming and my Momma even wants to get me business cards.  I am no longer looking for work because I am creating work, and I feel happier and freer than I ever have.

So please, visit my site and see what I’ve got going on in the world.  And thank you, dear blog reader, especially those who have been here for a long time.  I appreciate you.  Thank you for your continued readership, because even though I am doing other things, my blog is still my baby.

Even if I didn’t buy it a domain name.

The Sleeping Muse

Sometimes, as a writer, you start to think the muse is dead.

At the end of every three months or so, I prep my poetry submissions for the upcoming season.  There is a site called Entropy that publishes a huge list of journals accepting submissions every three months, and I work my way through it with my seasonal submission and hope for the best.  I haven’t encountered any hiccups (this is since starting submissions in 2018.)  Until now, that is.

I won’t call it writer’s block, because I am writing.  I’m pecking out my bi-weekly blog, and the occasional note or dialogue for the novels, both that in editing and that in planning.  But my poetry has been stifled, somehow.  It’s just not flowing.  And this makes me nervous, because poetry is my lifeline to writing on the whole. 

Usually, it happens spontaneously.  Something will happen, or occur to me, and I will have to write it down in a rush, then edit it, then voila!  A poem.  Bam, just like that.  A few a week, usually.  But lately…nothing.

Yesterday, I made myself write one.  It was about the Out of the Darkness Walk that I do every September.  I decided I would write it as a warm-up…give myself a topic (the walk, as yesterday marked one more month until the event,) and sit down at the computer and write something about it.  I surprised myself, in the end.  Which is a good sign.

Any time I surprise myself while writing, it means it’s pretty good.  If I’m reading back what I’ve written and I’ve forgotten I was the author, then it’s really good.  These are the standards by which I judge my work.  It felt like, for some time, this wasn’t happening for me.  Nothing was surprising me.  I feel very hopeless in these moments, as though the muse has left and will never return. 

But then I wrote a little poem, and it’s kind of good.  Then, I wrote another…not as good, but the fire was there.  I wrote a third.  And a fourth…

By the end of the day I had my fall submissions ready to go.  Yesterday morning, I had nothing.  I had the feeling of self-doubt that consumes the writer who doesn’t know what to write about.  I had the voice in my head whispering that it was all crap.  But, last night, I had a full submission packet and several new poems. 

The muse is not dead.  Sleeping, perhaps.  But not dead.

Sunflower

I don’t write much about the kiddos, even though they are a huge part of my life.  I like to keep a little privacy where they are concerned, hence the initials and a lack of current photos on my blog.  But they are growing into amazing little people, and I just want to celebrate that for a moment.  

This week I spent a lot of time with E.  During the summer, we try to take each kiddo for an extended period…a few days to a week, so that they can have one-on-one time with dad.  When M is here, we hang out periodically though the day but spend the majority of it doing our own things.  When L is here, we hang a bit more, and he likes to go to places like the store or my mom’s house with me.  Still, he retreats to play his game or watch a movie while I clean house or write.  When K was here, Mark had some time off so he was with me to entertain her.  But E was a little different.

Content to do her own thing for a while, she is also ready and willing to do anything else, too.  She even came to take Mark to work with me, something none of the others have deigned to do.  On Monday, we ran errands and such.  I truly thought she would hear the itinerary and say no thanks, but she grabbed her sunglasses and her father’s shoes and got in the car. (Sidebar: she wore these shoes all week, everywhere we went, despite having her own.) 

Tuesday was more fun.  E is a budding photographer.  Nature shots are her specialty…I have included a couple of my favorites below.  I asked her how she would feel about a human subject, and would she be so kind as to photograph me for my future website?

Of course, she said yes.

So we went to the Burchfield Nature Preserve and she took my photo a few times, in different places.  When we finally got “the one,” she asked if we could go hiking.  And so, we spent about an hour wandering the trails, looking out for poison ivy, discovering cemeteries, and trying not to fall in the creek.  Afterwards, we didn’t want to go home, so she suggested we call Kevin.  For the new reader, Kevin is my brother-from-another-mother.  He’s about as close as the kiddos have to an uncle on my side of the family, and they all adore him.  Kev is very good at getting on a kid’s level, be it video games with the boys or letting the girls braid his ridiculously luxurious hair. 

We drive out there and he wants to go explore.  Of course, we are down with the plan.  Also, E desperately wants to ride in his car…she’s something of an auto enthusiast as well.  He takes us up to an overlook in East Aurora, where she takes some photos.  Then we head over to an abandoned developmental center that the county is allowing to be reclaimed by nature, supposedly.  Finally, we ended up hiking along a creek in West Seneca.  It was exhausting, but fun. 

On Wednesday, both of us were tired from Tuesday, so we were very chill.  Still, E was more than willing to help me with some housework, and when Mark got home, we spent some time together on the porch just talking.  Thursday brought with it some more errands, of which E again had no complaint and was eager to accompany me.  Then, Friday.

E mentioned on Thursday how much it sucked that Mark had to work all week.  She said she had a great time with me, but missed her dad.  So, Mark asked off for Friday and got it.  He planned a whole day for her.

She had wanted to go fishing.  This surprised me a little.  Usually when we fish, she is the first to get bored.  She will catch one and be done, or she will catch nothing and get annoyed.  Then she wanders off with my camera to take her pictures.  She is never the one to wake up on Saturday morning and say “Let’s go fishing.“  That’s K or L.  Still, she knows her father loves to fish, and she asked if we could go.  Early Friday morning found us on our way to the Bull Creek boat launch in Tonawanda.  She caught a perch.  She was pleased, but then it started getting very hot.  So, we moved along to our next destination. 

We went to Mississippi Mudd’s for lunch, a sort of funky hot dog stand along the river.  The food was delicious, but the bees were insane.  We ate quickly and then fled.  My fool self got sweet potato fries with honey on them so of course they were swarming my food. 

Afterwards, we went out to Sanborn to visit the sunflower field.  Many photos were taken, and I definitely wore the wrong shoes for the occasion.  Especially when we went out into the U-Pick field.  Mark bought six sunflowers.  A bouquet for me, and a perfect little one for E.  I love sunflowers.  They’re not only my favorite flower, but a recurring omen in my life…I’ll have to write about that at some point, too.

Afterwards, we took her home.  I was sad to see her go.  I had a lovely week with this little kiddo.  I saw truly how much she is growing every day, turning into this beautiful and kind and funny young woman.   I know she would have preferred to spend all her time with her father, but it was lovely getting to share that time together.  I don’t have kids of my own, and I don’t plan to, but I have my step-kiddos, so the motherhood thing is weird for me.  I love them and feel connected to them, but also kind of out of the loop.  So, getting to see just the little day by day things is fascinating to me.  E blew me away this week…so talented, so clever, so compassionate.  I truly love watching them grow.

Kinda like sunflowers.

New Car, New Life.

Summer, 10 years ago.

I worked at a day care.  I had just bought my first car, an old blue Explorer that I named Betsey.  I was enjoying the freedom she provided, being able to go wherever I wanted whenever I wanted.  I think, really, that were it not for that old car, I would not be where I am today.

One July afternoon, I was sitting at my computer and I received a Facebook message.  It was my ex-boyfriend, Mark.  Now, we had dated briefly back in 2003, and he, in his 20-year-old stupidity, totally messed that up.  So, for seven years we did our own thing…he went and had four kids, I threw myself into my theater work, and we didn’t think much of the other except perhaps in passing.  Yet, to say that our business was finished would be incorrect.

He messaged me occasionally over the years, friendly-like.  He was in a relationship with the kids’ mother and I respected that.  But then came that July afternoon.  I asked after his relationship-he said they weren’t together anymore.  I didn’t think much of it in the moment.

He asked if I wanted to hang out.  I told him I had the car now, so I could come pick him up, and we drove down to the marina where we went for so many walks back in the early days.  We caught up, told each other about our lives, our families, and such…it was nice.  I drove him home, and we had a couple beers with his roommate.  I got ready to leave, and he kissed me goodnight.

We hung out regularly after that, but neither of us were keen to put a title on it.  He had just ended a big relationship.  I was busy beyond belief…I had two jobs, one at the day care and one at the theater, and no time.

Then one night he decided we were going to go on a real date.  He took me to an Indian place.  I had never had Indian food, and he was excited to share the experience with me.  We were all dressed up because after we planned to go downtown to Curtain Up.  It was a big night, theater-wise, and I had never brought a date.  He reached across the table and took my hand.  “So…I guess you’re my girlfriend now, right?”  I smiled.  I guessed so.

As we drove downtown, I expressed that I was a little nervous to tell my parents we were seeing each other again.  My mother held little love after our breakup, even though I never said a harsh word against Mark during it.  She just took on the Mama-bear role, and who could blame her?  He assured me that while he was also nervous, it would all be fine.

Then we pulled into the parking lot.  Right next to my parents, who were getting out of their car.

Thrown headfirst into our fears, Mark greeted my parents warmly and my mother was surprisingly excited to see him.  We had a lovely time walking around downtown with them and enjoying the night.  When I got home, I was exhausted, but I was happy.

Now, I’m not going to lie to you.  The next six months of our relationship were difficult.  We made mistakes.  We spent time apart. We considered the cut-and-run. 

Mark moved to Amsterdam, NY for a bit.  This was particularly hard.  During that time, my trusty blue Explorer because less trustworthy, and died on me.  So, I went and bought a white Buick named George, and that is what I was driving when I picked him up at the train station.

We’d had a talk. He needed to come home.  He missed his kids.  He couldn’t find work.  And, he missed me, too.  So, I sent him the money for a train ticket, and he came home.  “I miss Betsey,” he says, as we drive towards the next destination in our lives.  I miss Betsey, too.

It is ten years later.

So much has happened.  We have lost and gained jobs.  We have been broke.  We have been homeless.  We have changed career paths.  We have moved apartments.  We have dealt with illness and depression.  We got married.  We have lost people we loved, and reconnected with people we lost.  We have been through SIX cars.  I don’t know that I would change any of it, though.  This September will mark not only 4 years of us being married, but ten years of us being together.  A whole decade.  It seems remarkable to me, given all that we have conquered.

So much has happened in ten years, all because one day I bought a new car, and Mark messaged me, and I went to show it off.

The early days vs. now.

Sunday Surprise

I used to keep journals, religiously.  Until one day, a terrible thing happened and I destroyed them all in an effort to burn away my memories.  It didn’t work at first, but with time and no pages to look over I gradually let go of things that I held onto for too long.

I have one journal left, that chronicles a chunk of my 20’s.  I don’t read it; I just keep it because someday there might be a story in there.  Aside from my journals, there are my blogs.  I have kept many blogs over the years, ranging from the personal to the professional.  I suppose this is as close as I come to journaling these days.

Now, if I did still keep one, I would certainly have written in it about yesterday.

I was sitting in bed eating carrots and watching 30 Rock on Hulu when my dad called me.  “Are you sitting down??” he says.  Oh, no.  Someone is dead.  Wait, no, he doesn’t sound upset.  Must be good news?  What could it be??  I, of course, run crazy with thoughts in that moment, but then he says something about the newspaper and it takes me a minute to put the pieces together and suddenly I realize what he is telling me.

I am in the newspaper.

Now, I’ve been published all over the web.  And I have a book of poetry out.  But I really don’t think anyone was as excited about any of that as much as they were about me being in the paper.  Mom came and took me to the gas station to buy a copy.  When I got home, the poetry editor from the News sent me a friend request, with an image of my poem.  He tagged me in a Facebook post that I shared on my socials.  And still…I was in shock.

See. I dreamt of this before anything.

I wanted to be on that poetry page since I was a teenager, discovering it one afternoon while searching the Gusto for acting gigs.  It seemed…attainable.  And yet…my early poetry was only published at the now defunct poetry.com. (Side note: the website still exists, but I don’t know where my poems went.)  I didn’t think any of the early stuff good enough, anyways.  Then, after my self-imposed writing hiatus and comeback, I saw the news as UNATTAINABLE, because I just wasn’t good enough.  I didn’t have a book yet, or a signing, or an interview.  I was nobody.

Now, I disagree.  I have stats to back my writing up, a little.  So, I composed an email and sent it to the poetry editor and waited, hopeful.

And then this.

The poem was the one I won the Poesia contest with, too.  So that little guy is having a good summer.

I am reminded a little of the tale “Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”  In it, her father tells her “If you see it in The Sun [their local newspaper,] it’s so.”  That is how I feel today.  I saw it in the News.  It must be true.

So, if I kept a journal, that’s what I would write about today.  Maybe a little about how E is spending the week and I am looking forward to lots of time with her while Mark is at work.  Today we are going to the park to do a photoshoot for a new author pic for me.  Tomorrow she wants to go fishing.  She has never been here solo before, so this is a really fun new experience for us.  I would write about it, because I would want to remember it.

I don’t keep journals anymore, and by default, I don’t do scrapbooks anymore either though I still have about seven of them.  I kind of wish I did, so I would have somewhere to put my newspaper clipping.  Ah, well. 

A frame will have to do. 

Election Season

It’s about that time. 

Some people look forward to Christmas or Halloween.  Or like, the Olympics. 

Me, I look forward to Election Day.  No, it has nothing to do with how I think Trump is an idiot, either.  I mean I do and I’m quite liberal, but I don’t care about your party during Election season, much like I don’t care about your religion during Winter-Holiday-Time.  We’re all celebrating something, right?  Be it four more years or revolution. 

Now, as I am blue, I will likely be better informed as to the goings-on of the Dems, though I do try to keep an open eye.  I watch both conventions.  I listen to what everyone has to say. Then I draw my conclusions. 

I am coming into this season with a different sort of feel.  It’s not like the past, where I was yearning for an expression of democracy.  This year I am desperate for it.  I think all of us who don’t support 45 are.  And I think that those who do are desperate as well, to cling to some small thing he has done that has benefitted them.  I mean, he has helped some people.

Just no one I know.

But that’s beside the point.

Anyway, because of all the dissent and anger surrounding the White House these days, I think this will be a very hot election season.  I back Biden of course, not because I particularly want to but because I don’t have a say in the matter.  I wanted Liz.  But I was bolstered by his pick of Kamala Harris as VP.  This is the event that officially kicks it all off for me.

Anyway, the DNC is in a few days and I will pop some popcorn and watch it and cheer.  Then I will watch the RNC, and throw some popcorn at the TV, probably. 

Then, debates!  Oh, I love the debates-I mean I don’t even think Trump will deign to do it, because he will be deeply schooled.  But a VP debate between Harris and Pence?  I am here for that.

Followed by the main event, Election Night.  I intend to vote early this year, so I won’t be braving the polls on the actual day, but I will be having my little get-together with my family where we drink and eat and watch the news.  It’s like my birthday, but in November, and without cake.

Maybe this year I will get a cake.

Last time we went home dejected and in disbelief.  I raged about the electoral college all night, as I am occasionally wont to do.  Hubs tried to assure me it would not be as bad as I thought it would be.  “But…but…GRAB ‘EM BY THE P*SSY!” I screamed in his face.

The party did not end well.

This year, I am hoping justice and common sense prevail, and we get the other old white guy.  Again, very liberal and totally over old white guys in politics, but I will take the team that I have been given over a million Donald Fucking Trump’s. Because that’s what I’m voting for…not just Biden, but the team.  Harris, of course, and whomever else they choose to help them fix the country.  I have faith in their capabilities to make those decisions.  I have never had faith in 45’s. 

So, it’s possible I will get political in future blog posts, and I want you to know that this is simply my fervor for the electoral process.  Off years are ok, for local elections…midterms are fun, and so are primaries…but I love the general election.  LOVE IT.  So excuse me while I geek out over polling statistics.  This is my Christmas.

This is my Olympics.