30 August 2013

My brain has been spectacularly blocked lately.  I’ve written a dozen blog posts and then deleted them because I was bored writing them so I presumed it would be boring to read them. I’ve written thousands of words for Max and then deleted them because they neither sounded like Max nor made for interesting reading.

Pretty much what I’ve been doing is sitting around staring at the laptop, feeling fat and not caring to do anything about it, and watching an incredible amount of bad TV.

“Why Thumper,” you’re thinking, “you must be depressed! That sounds like depression! Are you depressed?”

No. Really, I’m not.

Right now I’m just…lazy. And kind of liking it, to be honest. I’m not sitting around doing nothing because OMG life sucks. I’m sitting around doing nothing because playing online, surfing FARK and reddit and Facebook amuses me, and that bad TV is kind of fun.

On the Spouse Thingy’s days off I get off my asterisk and we go do things when we can think of things to do. Otherwise, I’ve pretty much enjoyed being a sloth.

But then I remembered I have a 40-mile walk coming up, and while the distance is not an issue my feet are not well prepped for it, and hills might be an issue.

On Wednesday we drove into San Francisco to walk around a bit, but mostly to get the giant ceramic frog I have wanted for about 3 years but had to talk myself into buying. Because, while it was awesome, it was also nearly $300 and I had a hard time justifying three hundred bucks for something that would just stand there by the fireplace freaking the cats out.

I finally decided the hell with it, I wanted the damn frog and the price wasn’t going to hurt us. So off to Pier 39 we went, where the frog had been standing in front of The Crystal Shop for as long as I could remember…and where it no longer was because someone else finally bought it.

Dammit.

Still, we were in SF, which I enjoy wandering around a lot more than I do Dixon. We stuck to the Wharf, so I didn’t exactly get any hills in, but we did around 6 miles and bought a couple of funny t-shirts. Next week we’re going back but heading for downtown, where there are hills, and where we can meet up with DKM for lunch.

I really should try to at least be somewhat prepared for the Avon Walk…even if it does cut into watching bad TV and playing online.

It would be easier if it weren’t so freaking hot out. I am not tolerating the heat well these days and anything over 75ish grinds me down. When I do think about setting the laptop aside and putting pants on to go outside where other people are, one look at the outside temperature is enough to make me click to the next website while muttering about the joys of having a working air conditioner.

I’m delicate, you know.

Yeah, this is boring as hell and I’m aware of it, but I need to actually not delete something for once.

Sorry.

Heh.

26 August 2013

11 August 2013

I spent way too much time just staring at this...

10 August 2013

I spent most of today--from 9 am on--feeling like my liver was trying to exit my body through a nonexistent opening, and like my ribs were grabbing hard and refusing to let go.

I don't know what the real issue was. Could have been stomach irritation. Could have been that one spot in my colon that the GI doc couldn't explain last year. Could have been a dozen different things, but all I knew was that, while I didn't feel the least bit sick, I felt fairly awful because it hurt.

Not badly; it hurt just enough to be annoying and draining. I couldn't get into a comfortable position in my chair and I I tried to lie down for a bit to see if that would help, but no.

Around 9 p.m., when I was feeling pissed off about it, Max jumped into my lap. He usually does around then; he curls up and watches TV with me for a while, until it's time for his late night snack.

Tonight he didn't curl up; instead he practically crawled up my chest until I gave in and leaned back in the recliner, grumbling about watching Broadchurch off the DVR with his giant head in my way.

Funny thing Mr. Max did: he stretched out across my upper abdomen right where it hurt and purred his damn fool head off. The uncomfortable weight of him eased the more he purred, and the more he purred, the better I felt.

When Broadchurch was over (and holy crap, this is going to be good) and it was time for his snack, I felt 95% better. I still have no clue what the source of the pain was, but I know damn well what made it ease up.

Oh yeah, he got crunchy treats after his gooshy food.

And you'll never convince me that some animals just don't know.

3 August 2013

I had two thoughts tonight:

1) Grownups should sit down and color more often

and

2) I would totally own first grade art class.

Hey, at least now they look less like chipmunks and more like cats...

2 August 2013

Why join those walks? What’s the point? You’re never going to find a cure by walking for three days. You’re not kicking cancer’s ass. It’s futile; you’re raising money and exhausting yourself for nothing, really.

I wandered into Starbucks today intending to pretend to work on Max’s book while I played on Facebook and Fark; instead I bought my Venti black iced tea, unsweetened (so that I can add an amount of Equal to it that really is shameful), and sat down with another semi-regular who has noted the hair and the tattoo, and with a little additional information from one of the baristas put the pink puzzle together.

She doesn’t get it, though. She’s all for the eradication of cancer, but finds the notion that one can raise money, walk 60 miles, and honestly believe it will cure anything.

Let’s just suppose that you could find a cure by raising money; what’s the point of walking. Or biking, swimming, or any of the things people do in the name of curing a disease. Just donate money and be done with it.

Two years ago I couldn’t have answered that. In my little world friends just did it; they signed up for these multi-day walk events and asked for donations so that they would meet the minimum number of dollars required to participate. It was done For The Cure, so that future generations wouldn’t have to suffer through the long, agonizing fight needed to survive.

If walking could cure anything, it would have been cured by now.

Here’s the thing: I don’t think anyone who participates in these walks honestly thinks that 100% of their money raised goes toward the research that will one day find a cure. I don’t think that every walker, crew member, and volunteer is there with the belief that their efforts will be the difference in finding a cure in the near future or not. Not everyone involved has expectations beyond getting through the miles and collecting a t-shirt at the end.

And not every person participating is completely on board with the organization’s overall mission.

I doubt that there are many people in general who don’t want a cure for cancer, or MS, or heart disease, or any of the other myriad of causes some people raise money for. You’d have to be a particular kind of messed up to enjoy the idea that disease impacts harshly on some and destroys lives for others. If you polled 1000 people, I’m guessing that 999 would say they are most definitely not in favor of potentially fatal diseases. The remaining 1 probably mis-heard the question.

If you poll 1000 people who participate in walk events and asked them if they honestly expect this to be the year their efforts find the cure, I’m guessing 999 will say no, and the remaining 1 is simply hopeful.

So why bother?

Ask those walkers the same question and you’ll get as many different answers as there are people, but it probably boils down to one fundamental thing.

Why not?

We’re not naïve people, those of us who get involved in walk events. We understand that while we’re decked out in pink, training mile after mile, then putting one foot in front of the other while we sweat through three days and sixty miles of hills and broken sidewalks, all with the hope of finding a cure for breast cancer that there are so many kinds of breast cancer that even if a cure is found for one, we’ll be back next year to raise money and walk against all the other forms of the disease.

We’ll walk because it’s not JUST the disease we’re trying to stomp down.

All that money raised every year, the pinkwashing that annoys so many, the effort made to train to be able to walk that far…it really isn’t just about finding a cure. It’s also about raising money so that the 40-something year old without insurance can get a mammogram. It’s about funding programs that participate in community outreach, getting rides to appointments for women and men who are battling on their own without family support. It’s about putting food on the table for kids whose mothers are out of work because they need to focus every ounce of their energy on not dying.

It’s about drug trials, medications that might not work and might break a woman willing to go through the trial down to the very fibers of what makes her want to live.

It’s about walking with strands of pearls worn around the necks of people who have lost someone they cared about deeply, even if they never met her.

It’s about hope.

And more than hope, I think, it’s about being proactive. I will never be the person in the research lab, figuring out how to combine chemicals that will attack cancer cells and hopefully leave healthy ones alone. I will never have that kind of brain; I will never be that smart.

I can’t cure anything. I can’t do anything for the friends I have lost to breast cancer; I can’t do much for anyone I don’t personally know who is fighting for their own life.

But I can raise money; I can dye my hair pink because it makes my friends laugh; I can wear pink spandex even though I feel sorry for anyone who has to see that; I can put up with the sneers of the cold-hearted who think my pink is disgusting.

And I can walk.

Yes, I could just donate money. We do; the Spouse Thingy makes and sells pink ribbon pens and I wrote a book on doing a walk, and every penny made from those gets donated. We could end it there, reap the benefits of the tax deductions and be perfectly content with that. Donating alone is worth contentment. It’s doing something. It’s contributing, and I celebrate those who are willing to dig into their pockets and do just that.

I need people who do that. I need people who want to donate money. I need them because I need to sign up for these walks, and I need to reach a minimum to participate.

I cannot find a cure. I cannot do a million things I wish I could do, but I can walk in honor of my friends who didn’t make it, and I can walk in support of those who are gutting it out in chemotherapy. I can drive the sweep van and support others who are walking, because whatever their reasons are, it matters to them.

No. In September, when I walk for Avon, my fundraising won’t find a cure. My walking won’t find a cure. Every step taken over 40 miles will not mean that any particular person will get an injection of a wonder drug and their fight will then be over.

I know that.

But every dollar I raise might mean that a clinic tucked away into a run down neighborhood gets a mammography machine. Nickels and dimes might mean someone doesn’t have to pick between rent and food. The collection of pennies could very well mean someone without insurance gets to see a doctor about that tiny little lump and get it taken care of before it becomes the big lump that becomes the Big Bad. That money doesn’t line the pockets of the organizations; it goes somewhere, and most of it goes somewhere that matters.

And I walk because it’s the one thing I can do, even though the money is raised and donated. It’s the effort I can expend, something tangible that deep down, while I do it in the names of the people I care about, is only for me.

Why walk? For the hope, for the possibilities, and for ourselves.

27 July 2013

Instead of real work lately, I've been sketching--badly--a few tattoo ideas. I've had one in my head for at least 10 years, but lacking the skills to draw it out, I've left it simmering in my brain. I knew that once I found the right artist I would be able adequately articulate what I wanted, and the end result would be a kick ass tattoo.

I found the right artist over a year ago but still haven't made a consult appointment; he's in San Francisco and a few times a year heads home to Vancouver to work there, and every time I've thought to make the appointment, he's not here. Well, that and I just haven't asked anyone to make the actual call for me.

While he was in Vancouver the last couple of weeks I picked up a sketch pad and pens, because poorly or not, I like to scribble. The worst thing that could happen? I'd draw a stick figure tiger, crumple the paper up, and then toss it out. I looked at pictures of tigers online, then sat down to sketch out what I'd had in my brain for years.

Go ahead and laugh. I sure as hell did.

After I was done laughing at myself, I decided that was more than enough to take to an artist, and it insured that (unlike my first two tattoos...which I love but they could be so much better) he wouldn't work directly off my drawing. I set it aside and sketched out something else (another tattoo idea, one I want for my parents since they're no longer here to grumble what did you do??? I'm not 100% sure but I don't think they liked my ink...) and while I drew, a little voice in the back of my head told me to get back online and look at tigers again, but change the search term from just "tiger" to "tiger sitting."

Lo and behold.

I'm taking this as a sign that it's time to get this. Now I just need to bribe the Boy into calling for consult appointments for both of us,* since he knows what he wants for his next one, too.

Funny, but not funny ha-ha, I've known for a long time I wanted a tattoo for my parents, and really did put it off because I doubted it would go over well, but it wasn't until my mom died that the exact image came to me. I've had something abstract in my head; it had to do with cats. I just had to. But everything I'd thought of fell just short of being right.

It's a cliche kind of image for a tattoo and not exactly original, but it's the right one.

Okay, don't laugh at this one. This one makes me weepy.

I couldn't get it right before, because they had to be together.

I don't know what colors I'll go with, but each cat will be a different color. The moon will be the moon, and I'm hoping to get 4 stars in there. 

Exactly 4.

Because.

I can hear my mom, though. My butt's not that big!

Heh.

*Not that I'm hinting or anything...

26 July 2013

Deep down, they're all still cats...

20 July 2013

The Avon Walk for Breast Cancer is in two months…I suppose I should start training for it, eh? I’m pretty confident that I could lace up my shoes and walk it right now, but it wouldn’t be pretty and I would be crying by the end. I need to get it in gear, and I need to go face some hills, preferably in San Francisco, where there are interesting things with which to distract myself while plodding along, and where it’s not so fricking hot.

Yeah, the heat and I are not friends anymore. I used to be fine at 85-90, these days when it’s over 72 I’m not exactly comfortable.

Want.

But, in the spirit of training, and because I’m a sucker for a medal, I signed up for a virtual half marathon* to benefit the Boston Marathon Victims Relief, but the cool part is that the people who set it up are Doctor Who fans and it’s also intended to honor the 50th anniversary…and the medal is a total Whovian must-have. So my intents are not completely charitable; I want that medal. It’s not a t-shirt, but hey…it’s a shiny. It’s a DOCTOR WHO shiny.

Things lately have had me thinking about my parents a lot—which isn’t surprising—and with that I’ve started looking for other walk events. In October there’s a Light Up The Night walk for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, and the American Cancer Society has a virtual walk available; my mom had more than one heart attack and during the time I was dealing with the pituitary tumor she was kicking the shit out of lymphoma, so those are important to me.

It would matter to my mom, too, that I walk against the things that turned the tide of her life. She was thrilled when I participated in my first SGK 3 Day, though I imagine the donning of the pink spandex as I paraded around San Francisco the next year left her a bit perplexed. I’m not sure what she thought about the pink hair, but one some level it probably amused her.

So yeah…I want to do a few walks in her honor.

I just wish it would cool down so training wouldn’t feel like walking through the pits of hell…

*There's also a virtual 5K. You can register for it by checking out their Facebook page and clicking on "About."

19 July 2013

Hey, now, smile! What could be that bad?

If you’re one of those people who walks up to random strangers and says stuff like that, stop it. You might think you’re being friendly or outgoing, but the truth is, you’re being mean. What you might see as an icebreaker or a friendly way to start some small talk with someone is actually a verbal attack.

Random Dude just planted himself near me while he waited for his drink at Starbucks; I’m sitting here working (or pretending to; Facebook and Fark are attracting a lot of my attention) and not engaging in either happy or sad thoughts. I’m just sitting here, minding my own business. For whatever reason, he felt compelled to tell me to not frown; I should smile, life is good!

Well…fark you, Random Dude. This is my face, like it or not. My mouth has a slight natural downturn to it, so no; I’m not always sitting here with a perpetual smile on my face. I’m not sad, I’m not angry; this is what I look like. Insinuating I must be upset is akin to telling me I’ve hit a couple of branches while swinging around the ugly tree.

This isn’t the first time this has happened; off the top of my head I can think of two other times in the last year alone someone has come up to me and told me to smile. Hey, nothing is that bad. When I was younger I used to plaster on a fake smile for the hell of it; now I either shrug or tell them life might be good, but yeah, it can suck sometimes.

Random Guy today, though? Something about him irritated the snot out of me, and without thinking I grumbled, “Yeah, my mom died recently.”

[For the record, I apologize to my weeks-dead mother for using her, but being that she had the same set of her mouth and surely got the same crap once in a while, she’d appreciate it.

Granted, she would suck in a sharp breath and blurt, “You didn’t!” but then she would laugh her asterisk off.]

It caught Random Guy off guard, in any case. His eyes went wide, he mumbled an apology, and couldn’t grab his drink and get out of there fast enough.

So, yeah. Don’t tell someone to smile. Chances are they’re neither unhappy nor sad; it’s just their face. And if they are sad, telling them to smile is discounting their feelings. If they’re not, telling them to smile is discounting their appearance.

Don’t be Random Guy.

14 July 2013

More years ago than I care to count back, I took a business law class; the teacher was engaging and effective, and spent time on things that were less about business and more about general law. I think he was looking for, in his younger students, the few who might be interested in law as a career and who not there to simply fulfill an elective requirement.

He often used news stories to illustrate his points and initiate discussions; I don’t remember what case specifically brought about the topic of someone who seemed obviously guilty to the class being found not guilty, but I do remember two very specific things he had to say about it.

1 – being found not guilty is not the same thing as being declared innocent. The jury has to work with the information and evidence they’ve been given, not the suppositions we tend to insert into the media opinions we’re fed on TV and the newspapers.

2 – one of the cornerstones upon which our judicial system is built is the fundamental belief that it is far better to allow a few guilty men to go free than to imprison one person who is truly innocent.

Those are the things that bubbled up from the depths of my brain yesterday when the guy who killed Trayvon Martin was found not guilty. It doesn’t mean he’s innocent, it just means the prosecution failed to make their case effectively, for whatever reasons. Perhaps they didn’t do well their due diligence. Perhaps they chose the wrong charges to bring against him and trying to wedge manslaughter as a consideration in at pretty much the last minute worked against them. I’m not a lawyer; I don’t even pretend to understand how the particulars work. The end result is that the guy walked.

Forget Florida’s stand-your-ground law; as far as I’m concerned he was culpable the moment he ignored the dispatcher’s order to stay put and wait for the police and he began to follow Martin. The moment he made that decision, he was not standing his ground, but he instead forced a teenager to stand his own, and the kid lost. It doesn’t matter if the teen was up to no good or not; George Zimmerman acted as judge, jury, and executioner.

That’s not standing ones’ ground. That’s being a vigilante.

So hell yeah, *I* think he’s guilty, but I wasn’t on that jury and did not have to make the decision weighted by the evidence presented to me. I don’t have to allow for any measure of reasonable doubt. I think the guy is a racist farkwad and deserves some serious punishment.

But do I think that justice was served?

I do.

Justice isn’t necessarily finding someone guilty who is not innocent; it’s the whole process of due process; it’s allowing for the notion that sometimes you let the bad guy get away, because in the end you don’t want to imprison someone truly innocent.

Zimmerman walked, but he isn’t free. He’ll never be free.

13 July 2013

Okay, so on my way home from Starbucks yesterday, I decided to stop and get my hair cut. I just wanted it cleaned up a little, because the back of the top of my head was a little longer than the front, and it was looking bad. All in all, a quarter of an inch at most would do the trick.

I got the haircut from hell. I went from a nice messy kind of spiked hair to this:

Normally when I get a bad haircut, I figure it'll grow out, no big deal. But this was bad enough that I was horrified. I wore a hat when I went out today and still felt all weird and self conscious.

It wasn't even that the dye job made the cut bad; the choppiness and unevenness made it cringe worthy. So after the Spouse Thingy got up and had food, we went out to the back patio, where Fix Thumper's Hair commenced.

He did this a lot when he was in Saudi...they buzzed each others' hair just because it was a hell of a lot cooler than having any.

Just one tiny hair sticking up...it already feels 1000% better. Once he got that stray hair...well, it's the shortest I've ever gone, but I like it a hell of a lot better.

He may have himself a new summer job.

12 July 2013

I'm sitting in Starbucks--surprise!--and trying very hard to not look up and stare at the women who are sitting just in front of me. They've been talking at a normal volume for quite a while, but in the last five minutes whatever they're discussing has become quite heated. Well, one of them is upset, the other just looks a little annoyed.

It was my idea and she's getting credit!

No, she just corrected a few of the errors.

I didn't ask her to, and she needs to shut the hell up!

I'm not looking, but I imagine spittle is flying as she barks out her hurt feelings. I also imagine bulging eyes and throbbing forehead veins, but that's because I read too much drama type fiction, I think.

The gold, though...there's a little girl, maybe 5 years old, sitting a couple tables over who just leaned toward her mom and whispered quite loudly, "Well now, that behavior is unacceptable."

Biting my tongue, biting my tongue, because that did make me want to laugh.

7 July 2013

It only took a smidge over three weeks, but I got my first real snotty comment about the pink hair today. Sure, people have stared, laughed, pointed, and have been taken aback--and I expect that, because hey, chubby middle aged woman with very pink hair--but I didn't expect the first rude comment to be thrown in my face like a cup of scalding-hot-frak-you.

Guys, I wish I was making this shit up.

As I was leaving Walmart, having purchased the Spouse Thingy's requested bubble wrap and baby oil (speculation as to why he needs them is occurring on Facebook RIGHT NOW! Go join!), an old woman was inching her way through the crosswalk, leaning heavily on a cane. She took one look at me, scowled, and then spit out, "How can you do that to yourself? You should be ashamed."

I actually looked behind me, because really? What the frak?

My intelligent retort? "Whut?"

"You look like a damned fool with that hair and those...tattoos."

"Um."

"You ruined the skin God gave you and that hair is disgusting."

A flash of the tagline on reddit's tattoo subreddit zipped through my head. My body is a temple and I'm just decorating the walls. I wish I'd said it, but all that came out was, "Yeah, well..."

At this point, I don't even know why I'm still standing there. If she'd been my age, I would have shrugged and walked off, probably with an expletive or two. Truthfully, I haven't outgrown the whole respect your elders thing, and tend to let people that much older than myself off the hook for some of the vile crap that spews forth.

Not sure what I'll do when I'm that old.

"Your. Hair."

"Is none of your business."

And that's when I walked off, because the next words out of my mouth would have been ill-spirited and very unkind...plus she had that cane and I was fairly certain she wouldn't have a problem about whacking me with it. There is no defending yourself against a fragile old woman; even if it's warranted, you wind up looking like the bad guy.

Not that I've ever beaten up an old person...but you know I'm right.

The thing is, a couple years ago that might have really bothered me. Now...sure, she's a bigoted dipwad who has probably just lost the filters that years ago would have kept that opinion teetering on the tip of her tongue as she bit down hard with her front teeth, but it didn't tick me off.

It's almost--almost--funny.

And if my feelings had been hurt, the teenager two minutes later would have totally made up for it. As I loaded the Spouse Thingy's baby oil and bubblewrap into the trunk--keep guessing, you kinky little freaks--a 15-16 year old walked by with her mother and squealed, "OhymygodIloveyourhair!"

As I thanked her, she turned to her mother and said, "You should do that! You would look great!"

Mom muttered about not having the nerve and they continued on. If my brain worked fast enough I think I might have asked them to find the old lady and run her over with a shopping cart, but I suppose it's a good thing I can't think that fast.

Oh, come on. I wouldn't have.

I think.

6 July 2013

My dad would have had a love/hate thing going on today. He was a news and weather junky; the TV was often on the local news, then CNN when cable became mainstream, and he freaking loved the Weather Channel. It was almost unnatural, his joy in all things weather, to the point where I thought he was a bit of a meteorological savant. The man could look outside, watch the way the trees moved in the breeze, note the color of the sky, and tell you what would happen and when.

Seriously; the last time I saw him he looked out the open front door and noted the way the trees across the street were moving and mused that we would be getting rain later that night. His dementia had taken a pretty good hold by then, but that part of him was still there...and damned if the sky didn't open up at 10 p.m., with thunder and lightning and pouring rain.

I don't pretend to be half as smart as he was or have even a sliver of his ability to weigh the things he was seeing on TV and come to logical (and usually correct) conclusions, but I realized today that I really take after him when something big happens. I am glued to the TV, changing channels every now and then, hoping for a fresh perspective and new information.

I want real information; I don't want useless speculation (even though I am aware I fully engage in speculation when talking with people online about what's happening.) I want the points to connect logically, and I want to be able to make sense of it.

The difference between us...I have a breaking point. Where he could immerse himself in the news for hours, I have to disconnect and get away from it all after a while if I can.

When today's news of the Asiana Airlines 777 wrecking on landing in San Francisco hit today, I had been on my way out the door, but stopped and sat back, picked up my laptop to connect with people online and find out new info, and I watched for an hour. When I realized I was talking to the TV--please let people be okay, please let people be okay--I decided I needed to turn it off and go to Starbucks.

Sure, I would still be getting info online while I was there, but I would be distracted by the people around me and the work I was pecking away at.

I snapped this photo from the TV before I left, because...reasons.

I was home a couple of hours later, and went right back to watching news coverage. I expected things to get so much worse, and was relieved when things didn't. No, two people dead isn't great, 100+ injured isn't wonderful...but it could have been so much worse.

 And I'll be honest, there were so many times today when I muttered to myself that I would never fly again. Nope, nope, nope. Granted, I might fly again, but it sure as hell won't be any time soon, and I'll probably have to be drugged out of my gourd to do it.

Next vacation...road trip in the Bug.

Yeah, I don't really know where I'm going with this. Maybe just that the events of today reminded me of my dad, and reminded me of how freaking smart he was.

4 July 2013

I miss my mom.

I don't know where the feeling came from, but it slapped me into my chair tonight, and it hasn't let go. It's not mourning, exactly, but it is sadness and it was abrupt.

All right, maybe I do know where it came from. The phone rang, and while I had no intention of answering it I did go over to see who Caller ID said it was. It was a familiar number, but nothing I'd pick up for; just some spam caller who has been calling, letting it ring twice, and then hanging up.

It's rare that I will actually answer the phone anymore. There are only two people I know for sure I'll have a fair shot at understanding, the Spouse Thingy and the Boy. And understanding them is not a guarantee, but I don't feel bad asking them to repeat over and over.

It doesn't help if the person on the other end speaks louder; it's a frequency issue. You can call me and speak at a volume so high you're on the edge of shouting, but that won't help. Then all I hear is a loud jumble of sounds. And face it, you can only ask someone to repeat themselves a certain number of times before they get frustrated.

Hell, I get frustrated, too.

But...the phone rang and I checked to see who it was, knowing I probably wouldn't answer. Anyone who knows me well enough knows my issues and would only call in a real emergency. I shuffled back to my chair, where I was surfing through FARK, and as I sat down it hit me hard.

I'm never going to talk to my mom on the phone again.

I hadn't talked to her on the phone for over a year before she died, because her age-weakened voice was less than a whisper to me, and I couldn't make heads or tails out of what she was saying. I've felt bad about it but not guilty, because there's not a lot I can do about it. It is what it is, even though what it is kind of sucks.

I don't know if she truly grasped my hearing problems for what they were; she had slipped into early dementia by that last phone call, and while she likely understood, she might not have actually understood, if that makes sense.

I last spoke to her on Christmas Day 2011. It was a shorter call than normal, because we were headed out the door. I intended to call back in a week or two, but by then the ringing in my ears had increased, and phones were more problematic than ever. I had hopes of finding something to fix that, but some things aren't so easily fixed.

I can still her hear voice. I'm not worried that it will fade from my memory; I can still hear my dad's voice and he's been gone since 2010. I think those sounds are hard wired into my brain and the right triggers will always bring them forward. I just hate that my damned hearing robbed me of any chance to add to that audible memory bank, and stripped me of any chance to make her laugh just one more time.

I'm going to squash it down with chocolate ice cream...she would approve, especially knowing I'm lactose intolerant and there will be a price to pay.

But...the damned phone rang tonight, and now I miss my mom.

3 July 2013

Here's the thing... I think it's fairly normal for a person to change their mind about something based on new information, or even the same information presented in a new light. Some people do this quietly, chewing on data as they process it; some people do it loudly, practically shouting in an in-your-face kind of way.

Some take the middle ground; they don't spit it out at volume 11, but they don't hold it in tightly.

I tend towards quiet rumination--by the time I start speaking about some things, like buying a car or selling a bike, I've been pondering it and researching online and whatnot, for a very long time. Other times I plop myself down and write it out without lengthy and deliberate consideration. And then I shove it out into the ether, the Internet, and let people pick it apart or add to it, as they are wont to do.

There's a reason the blog is titled Thumper Thinks Out Loud.

Sometimes I put things out there and then have to take it back, more or less. Sometimes what I put out there is my knee-jerk reaction, and I'm wrong. Sometimes I'm right, but not 100% right. I still write about it and hit 'publish' and whatever happens, happens.

If you Google "think out loud" you get this...

 That's what's happened with Komen over the last year and a half, and it might happen again. I get irritated with some of what the organization does at the national level, and write about it. They take steps to remedy the screw ups, and I have to acknowledge that. I declare myself done because I'm annoyed, but then I get to see things in a different light and I'm not quite done after all.

It's one of the things I think out loud about, because it matters to me. The people matter to me; those who have lost loved ones, those who are fighting for others while undergoing treatment for themselves, those who have benefited from and those who will need help from Komen. No, I don't think I'll ever be 100% content with them...I'm not sure anyone ever should be, not with any big organization. There has to be a balancing of the scales, the good they do versus the stupid--in any charity.

Thinking out loud helps keep me sane.

These suckers hurt my feet.

Call it a flip flop if you need to; I get it. I accept it.

I'm not sure I would understand either side if I'd never walked the walk and then worked the crew. It provides a whole different perspective.

In a little over two and a half months, I'm walking again, but this time for Avon. I want to see how different it is, how alike it is. I want to see how it feels. And face it, with Komen pulling the San Francisco walk from their itinerary for the foreseeable future (they'll bring it back some day, I'm sure...and yes, I'll be there on the crew) Avon is the most convenient option for me.

But who knows? I may change my mind about that, too, once I experience it for myself.

As long as I get a t-shirt out of it, it won't be horrible. If there's no shirt, well, expect public whining. And then expect me to take it back.

It's what I do, right?

Hypocritical, flip-flopping; you can call it anything you want. But truly, I'm just thinking, and letting whomever wants to see it take a look.

30 June 2013

Bullet Abuse 3,289,122

• According to one commenter, I am a "hypocriticle fucktard." It's always nice to have ones' efforts noted. AND to have ones' almost-favorite slur used. Though I generally change it to fark, because, why not?


• It is hot as fark out there, and I willingly went outside. I do not know why. But I do know that days like today make me think a car with a black leather interior was not the greatest of ideas.


• The heat is supposed to continue through the week, and get worse. We'd considered driving into San Francisco and enjoying the much cooler temps there, but there's a BART strike planned, which means traffic and parking shortages. The nice part of me doesn't want to take a parking space from someone else who really needs it because of the strike, but the bigger part just doesn't want to mess with the traffic.


• Got to Starbucks this afternoon, and the line was surprisingly long for such a hot day. Within a minute some old lady looked up at me and declared my hair to be funny--I ageed--and very odd. I couldn't exactly dispute that, and she wasn't mean about it, just kind of curious (though I also offered no explanation.) A couple of minutes later a much younger woman approached and asked--no trepidation, either--if I was gay. When I said, "No, I'm not," she was actually disappointed because, "my mom would really dig you."


• Yes, I was flattered.


• I sat down and realized my mom has been gone for a little over a month. While I don't tend towards weepy displays, it did dig at me a little. I still really hate the idea of a world without her in it.


• It's been a hard month, really. From the time she died to now, a couple friends have passed, and the much beloved Skeezix bounded off to the Bridge. I would like it if people would stop dying now. And cats. It hurts when they go, too, especially when they go so young.


• No, I am not elevating a cat to the same level as a person. While I might refer to Max and Buddah as "my babies" they are not equal to my son. 


• Man, I really hate it when I get up to use the restroom and someone takes my table. My table! Mine!


• Honey, if every third word you speak is, "like" I am going to think unkind things as you speak and not be able to focus on what you're actually talking about. And I really hope I don't have a similar verbal tick like that I just don't notice.


• No, bud, the tattoos didn't hurt. They went on like kitty kisses, but without the fishy breath.


• OHMYGOD YOU CAN SEE A LITTLE BIT OF MY BRA! Better go wash your eyes before you go blind, dood.


• I really don't think people realize how their voices carry in here.


• Okay, guy to the right of me sneezing every other minute. Lady to the left coughing. I think I may take this as a clue to go home where the only cooties are family cooties.


• After I go to the store. I suspect the Spouse Thingy will want to eat dinner tonight.


• But ugh. It's already over 100 out there. =sob=

28 June 2013

Yuck.

This is NOT good top-down driving weather. Dangit. This is stay home and work weather.

Blargh.

Could be worse, though, it could also be humid. That would probably kill me, and I'm only partly kidding about that...

24 June 2013

The thing about having a knee jerk reaction to something is that if you jerk hard enough, you can kick yourself smack in the boobs and it stings enough that you just don’t think straight. It stings enough that you can’t really think straight and can’t really give a coherent answer when someone asks if you’re all right; if you can speak at all you cough out another jerk-like reaction and sputter, “I’m fine” even if you’re not.

That’s been pretty much my whole Komen thing over the last three weeks ago. Earlier in the month I was done with Komen, and if not for how close we were to the 3 Day event and not wanting to hose DKM, I would have bailed on it entirely.

I am so glad I didn’t.

A lot of that is selfishness, but a good part of it is seeing the event without a veil of upset clouding my sight. Like last year, I had a great time. It was long days of doing a lot on little sleep, but I had a blast. I got to be a little stupid and a lot goofy; I sang and danced and shook water and Gatorade jugs at walkers, I drove a lot and didn’t run anyone over, and I saw a lot of raw emotion.

I saw the bigger picture.

The bigger picture of the 3 Day isn’t Komen as a whole. It’s not Nancy Brinker and her outrageous pay raise; it’s not the whole Planned Parenthood fiasco. It’s not my possibly pretentious indignation over events that are far too easy to politicize and misunderstand. It has nothing to do with me or my feelings.

The bigger picture started to lose its fuzziness with every stop we made to pick up a walker needing to get to the next pit stop. It began to come into focus while we stood at the entry to Land’s End to remind the walkers there was no sweep access for the next 1.2 miles and that they had a giant staircase to ascend, as I danced like a rhythm impaired drunk and shook jugs filled with water and Gatorade for those who might not have enough to drink as they went onto the trail. I could really see it as we drove the van around town, trailing the caboose—a staff member who rides a bicycle, following the last walker, making sure they’re safe and that the route doesn’t close before they’re done—and seeing her gut out the tough hills and slow pace, without complaining and even hinting that it was an issue or even “just” her job.

Komen has problems; Komen knows it has problems. I really don’t like some of the things that have happened over the last couple of years and how those have been handled. I really don’t like some of that I’ve been hearing from people working closer to the inside than I’ll ever get. But those things really are just a handful of pixels in a fairly high-def image.

The 3 Day Walk isn’t about Komen; it’s about all the women and men to whom the fight matters. It’s about the agony of loss and hope of ending that pain.

It’s about doing.

Look, we’ve all lost someone to disease; heart disease, stroke, accidents, and cancer. We all know how helpless losing someone can make a person feel, and how being able to save someone else from that fate would take a bit of the sting away.

I’m guessing that not many of the people whose feet hit the pavement this weekend are in the position to actually find a cure for breast cancer, but all of them needed to do something about it, contribute in any way they could. And I’m pretty sure that all of them understood that not 100% of the money they raised goes directly into the research that will, someday, find that cure. Knowing that didn’t keep them from walking the 500+ training miles in preparation to tackle this walk, and it didn’t keep them from lacing up their shoes every very cold morning in the San Francisco Bay area and heading out to walk on often horrible pavement and gravel-covered trails. The pain and overwhelming emotions that can come with a 3 Day walk didn’t stop anyone. We saw more than one person limping along in obvious pain but they wouldn’t stop to take a sweep van, and we witnessed more than one struggling with tears and losing that fight as they pushed on.

This walk matters to these people. It matters more than the mistakes and more than the politics.

It’s very easy to sit back and criticize and complain, and to mutter things about finding a cure and how this should be done and that should be stopped and why the hell hasn’t a cure been found already, but it’s not so easy to DO something about it.

So, yeah…only twenty days ago I was done with Komen.

Now, perhaps not so much. I’m bummed that so many cities had to be cut for next year. I honestly understand why they needed to drop so many and I understand why San Francisco had to be one of them (it is seriously expensive to host a walk in SF.) I don’t like how they’ve conducted business over the last couple of years, but I have high hopes that with the new CEO at the helm, things will change.

Flip flop much, Thump?

Maybe.

Or maybe it just became clear that I can have serious issues with Komen but still support the cause, and support the people to whom that cause really matters.

Those people are the bigger picture.

Besides, where else can I dance with Hookers and paramedics while belting out Bohemian Rhapsody?

I feel bad that this was the last 3 Day in SF for the foreseeable future, and mostly I feel bad for all the participants, and how much it likely hurts them that their outlet, the biggest way they could make a difference, is no more.

16 June 2013

I’ve been sitting in Starbucks for about an hour, working (imagine that!) on Max’s mousebreath! column for tomorrow. There have been far more kids in here than usual, almost all of them shuffling behind their dads; their dads all have the same look: is this day over yet? Will a giant cup of caffeine make it better?

The kids all look excited as hell. The dads…very, very tired.

It amuses me.

Sitting next to me for a while, though, was a couple without kids in tow. They were very solemn, and it was apparent from the get-go that their father has passed away, and they’re struggling with it.

Today sucks for them.

There was talk of going to the cemetery and seeing him, putting flowers down, and saying a few things to him. There was also an undertone of guilt because it seemed like neither one really wanted to go there. They were trying to figure out a way around it, wondering if not going made them bad kids for skipping a visit on Father’s Day.

They didn’t ask me; I’m sure they weren’t even thinking about the idea that even though I was sitting here typing away, I could hear and take in their conversation. But had they asked?

No. You’re not bad kids for not wanting to visit your father’s grave. It doesn’t matter that today is Father’s Day or not. You are not horrible, awful, or any of the other adjectives that are threading through your brains.

Maybe it’s because my brain is wired differently that others’ brains are, but I have never visited a grave post-funeral. It’s not that I’m opposed to it; I just don’t see a point.

I don’t need to visit a grave to have a conversation with the now-gone person I care about. They’re not there. What remains is only the container; the soul I loved is wherever souls go: heaven or the ether or a whisper in the wind around me, but they’re not in that grave.

On the other hand, if visiting someone’s grave is important to you, I do see the point. I grasp that some people need a place to visit, where they have something tangible to see and a focal point to talk to. I understand that decorating a gravesite means something, and to not do it feels like a mistake.

I’m just not that person. And I don’t think anyone should feel guilty for not being that person and not wanting to go.

Even on Father’s Day.

There’s nothing magical about Father’s Day or Mother’s Day. It’s not as if I will miss my dad any more today than I do any other day. And the truth is that if I were in Texas where he is buried, I wouldn’t be visiting his grave, not unless my sisters wanted to and wanted me with them.

It would be for them. Not for me. Not for my father.

I imagine I’ll feel the same way on Mother’s Day. I’ll miss my mom…but not quantitatively more than I miss her on any other day.

I miss them every day.

I hate the idea of their not existing in this world. I hate that they didn’t get as many years as I wished for them, or that all the years they did have were not as kind to them as they deserved. I hate everything about dying and feel a bit robbed on their behalf. I was supposed to be an old, old woman before they died.

But…I can talk to them anywhere I happen to be. I can create a visit with them in my own home, on Ocean Beach or the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, in the middle of staring at incredible works of art in a museum, or hell, even here in Starbucks.

When I get to NY someday and go to see Van Gogh’s Starry Night in the MOMA, you can bet I’ll be carrying them with me.

A grave is not necessary for the communion of sharing with the dead. No one should feel guilty for not wanting to visit the grave of someone they loved. No one should feel weird or awkward because they want and need to, either.

Remember the people you loved on your own terms. That’s all that matters, as long as you remember them.

15 June 2013

Hard at work at the 'Bux

Next weekend is the 3 Day, and in spite of my current Komen reservations, I'm starting to get excited about it. It means hanging with DKM for 4 days, decorating the van stupid-fun, and meeting a bunch of walkers.

It also means it's time for the dying of the hair, even though I didn't have to fundraise for this one. I like the pink hair, so why the hell not?

And with the dying of the hair comes the inevitable comments from other people. So today I bring you:

Chit I Overheard At Starbucks.

In the parking lot:

Young teenaged boy: Ah, man. I want to do that.
Presumed Dad: Dye your hair pink?
YTB: Yeah. Why not?
PD: Kind of girly.
YTB: Naw. I like the car, too.
PD: Kind of girly.
YTB: I'd get a sex change for that car.
PD: Fine, dye your hair.
They followed me inside...kid was practically bouncing on his toes.

After I ordered:

Lady I don't recognize: Oh, thank God. You don't look right with normal hair.

While I sat at my table:

PD: Yes, I was serious, you can dye your hair.
YTB: I'll do it, you know.
PD: I know.
YTB: pauses You don't think I'm gay, right?
PD: I couldn't care less if you were.
YTB was speechless to that; I had to actually grit my teeth to keep from squealing.

While I surfed Facebook instead of working:

Very young girl, maybe 5 years old: I didn't know old people were allowed to have pink hair!

---

Not one mean comment so far... I expect them, because a lot of people just don't get it. Or they're simply total douchebags. But so far, so good.

And I hope there's not a law about it....

Time to head home before I anyone calls the cops. Just in case.