millenials – The Book of Her

January 2nd 2022

It’s been too long. I started off NaNoWriMo on fire and then burned out like a sexed out mayfly. And I learned, as we do, that perhaps starting an ambitious writing project riiiiiight as I’m starting to feel burned out in every single aspect of my life was not setting myself up for success.

I never left, and yet I am here now. Back again, with you.

We did it. We made it. Another year. When really, it feels like everything has been shit since 2016. Then again, maybe that’s just when I started paying attention.

2016. It wasn’t the very beginning of my deconstruction but its when it got out of idling and onto the freeway. Crashed a few times. Made a lot of mistakes. Accepted that prayer, guilt, and shame were not ever going to set me up onto the narrow path. And that the people who teach this to children, who get them to internalize it, are not holy people but merely adults ruled by the fears and scars of their own childhoods. I learned that the most important voice isn’t male, but mine. That truth is insanely nuanced and dogma and doctrine are all made up and there is absolutely no reason to not figure out how it works for you as you go.

Mistakes aren’t sin, but telling people that the way that who they are, and who they love (with full adult consent) is wrong and that a sadistic god gave them the “burden” of hating and rejecting themselves while white cishet asshats get to sexualize little girls in the name of holiness most definitely is. I think the fuck not. I genuinely cannot get through a post without ranting and fram, thats just the season I am in. I’m not changing it, or editing it. Anger is an emotion, and a fuel, that I am called to explore in this season.

I remember being a Christian and wondering why the atheists were so angry. Like fine, don’t believe in god, but let me believe in peace. But I get it now. It is infuriating to watch this nationalistic cult continue to hurt and scar and wound people for absolutely no reason. It is infuriating to watch people you love drink the koolaid and offer you some and look hurt when you smack it out of their hands like the poison it is. It is maddening. I am not an atheist, but I am angry. I am furious. And I am going to keep using that anger as fuel to keep going in this world. To leave it better than it was given to me, to raise my children to stop seeing borders as more important than people. To keep going. Because honestly, when will the Christians realize their own holy book, their own god was telling them this the whole time. The kingdom is already here, this is it. This beautiful world, the creatures in it, the mysteries and dangers and breath taking beauty – the experience of it – its all here. This is not the fallen world, this is not a left over that has been handed over to evil for us to patiently wait for it to all end in fire. This is it. This beautiful mishmash of pain and joy is everything. The fact that we have set fire to so much and so many and blamed evil spiritual beings instead of the rich and powerful is simply a testament to how much responsibility we have to right what we – not the devil – WE have wronged.

Which brings me back around to this new year. I don’t have a ton of resolutions. And I’m not going to get in shape or change the way I eat or write every day. I might spend more time, though, trying to figure out why I do not do the things I want to do (write) and try to spend a bit more time being quiet and trying to hear myself. And then heed myself.

And, starting today, and lasting not all year but for the next nine days, I will be doing a meditation on anger. And the place it has in my life.

Because I can be happy with where I am, and my life in the moment. And still be angry at what was taken from me. Anger does not have to rule me in order for it to fuel me. Anger is not just an emotion, or a reaction. It is a holy warning. To stop harm. To keep it from continuing. To stop toxic cycles. Anger is a gift. Anger isn’t something we heal from, it is the tool we use to heal. And anyone who says otherwise is just someone who doesn’t want to be stopped.

All of that being said, I guess I do have one resolution. This year, I’m getting published. This year, I’m getting paid for my writing. This year… I’m not hiding my brightness. Not from anyone.

Way Back When

Whether it’s a helpful habit (or more likely not) I tend to put a show on in the background when I do planning stuff. Not writing, but when I’m doing meal plans, washing dishes, and homeschool stuff, I put something on. Often it’s every season of the Great British Baking Show on repeat, but I also enjoy The Grand Tour, and then I like to sprinkle in various British contests I watch on HBO Max. Like “All that Glitters” or “The Great Pottery Throwdown”.

Today, as I was planning out home school stuff and wondering how on earth I was ever going to schedule some field trips when the weather here is constantly asking Mother Nature to hold its beer, I put on a new show. “Clarkson’s Farm” because in all honestly, not only do I enjoy “The Grand Tour” but I enjoy Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May and keep up with whatever they put out. While “The Great Escapists” was delightful nonsense I have no plan to re-watch, “Clarkson’s Farm” has hit a note in me that has rang so deep and loud that I am now here, writing about it.

Not only do I delightfully get to watch baby lambs being born, but I was reminded of when the pandemic began, and what that looked like. I know it was a horrid global pandemic that has now killed 4 million humans and I don’t long for that to be back in any way, shape, or form. No. What I miss, though, was that for a few months, for almost a year, really, the societal expectations of me shifted. I wasn’t expected to be running around with my head cut off getting groceries and planning trips and running errands and visiting friends and going to play dates etc. I was expected to be at home and to be happy about it.

And I was.

I could *breathe*. And as of late, I have found myself once again going way too fucking fast. I am out of breath, constantly. Not because I am literally running, no, in fact I wish I was in better shape. Rather, I find myself so stressed out I am actually holding my breath to try and slow down.

The kids and I are going out almost every day. Just for this quick or that quick. Run errands here and there. Grab this. Do that. And suddenly the day is gone, and I’m completely wiped. There went the week. The month. The time slips through my fingers and I cannot seem to get enough sleep to make up for it.

And I feel an ache for when we did not. When I did not run to the store if I forgot something, but made do and waited. When days at home were filled with everything we had already being enough. When going out was planned and we did it consciously and effectively. And being home was the *norm*.

I have too easily been led away from that peace. Too easily pulled back into the stream of never ending needs that aren’t actually needs at all. No. No. I’ve had enough now.

I’ve had enough of the running. Of the constant pull. That’s not what I want my life to look like, or what I want my kids’ lives to look like. I’m not going on lockdown again, by any means. One kid is signed up for soccer this autumn and the other is to start gynamstics. We have home school meet ups once a week, plus field trips. But I am going to be more intentional. On days we are out, we can run errands. So that every day is not an out day. Instead, they can be limited. And we can truly rest and not let our time be stolen by pointless comings and goings. We can spend time with ourselves and each other because shockingly, I like us. I like our home.

Magic starts here, at home, with me. So I’m bringing back the magic that was the “permission” to be contented at home. But this time, without a global pandemic and without anyone’s permission. I mean, I’m a witch. If I wanted permission, I’d go to church.

Always Two Minutes Away From Dying

The thing about life is that it’s insane, really. Especially our lives, moving at the speed of light, hurtling everywhere at dizzying speeds with over 150,000 deaths per day and a population that continues to increase. We are anxious sacks of meat supported by wet bones that are controlled by flashes of light sent from a wrinkly grey mass on the top of it. Lives are made and destroyed by strangers taking pictures and a few of the wrong chemicals can kill you, get you high, put you to sleep, or give you a hot flash. There is literally not one single thing about any of this that makes any sense.

Except love. Trite, I am aware. Over said. Over produced, certainly. But when I look at the passed out form of my children (it has to be asleep – lately they’ve been tiny bodied assholes during the day) and feel every last ounce of love that I have for them I accept that I am an anxious cucumber that takes sanity pills every morning and drinks magic bean juice to wake up and am surrounded by energy and wavelengths and data I cannot see and am always two minutes from death if for some reason I stop breathing and know that I would do it all again just to love them more.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

The Chosen

Full moon rises outside the window
Two deadweight bodies radiating body heat
Legs across mine
Claiming me as their own even in sleep
I don’t mind
I have been theirs since the moment I could finally hold them in my arms instead of vaguely curse at them to get the fuck out of me

Tension rises outside the door
Voices raised as emotions are expressed
Two people learning how to love each other again
How to belong to each other
And themselves
I don’t mind
I have been there, walked those exact steps, been overcome and overwhelmed and desperate
And came out the other side with more love than I ever believed possible

Words rise inside of me
Always wanting to get out
Past my tied tongue and my half open eyes and stiff fingers they demand release
I don’t mind
Racing across the page they are the wind in my sails
Pulling the weight from my heart and pouring it on the page they are my anchor
They are my breath in good times and bad

We rise out of expectations
Insisting on making our own way
Laying down the burdens of antiquated ideals
Ignoring the calls for self sacrifice from the same lips that call us entitled
I love him I love her they love me we love
And I don’t mind
The side eye when I introduce my partnerS
Call myself a witch
Or hear my child drop the f bomb at story time
Because at the end, when I walk into the light again, I will never wonder what my life would have been like if I had chosen it instead of accepted what I was given

Secret Sauce

Short one today folks. But important none the less. While I cannot say that I have ‘many’ friends, being an introvert with a rather complicated ranking system in my brain – don’t ask, I won’t tell anyway – I can tell you that I have known many people for a long time, friends or not. And they all have one thing in common: They are better looking in their 30’s than they were in their 20’s. Period. Across the board.

Women? Check. Men? Yup. Married? Yes. Single? Uh-huh. Kids? Even with the tiny life suckers. *Everyone* looks better in their 30’s. It is an almost universal truth. I look better in my 30’s. Both of my partners look better than ever. My friends are getting hotter.

*We are only just beginning to hit our stride, fram.* I need us to believe it. I need us to understand the good gifts we are to the world, to each other. I need us to revel in our secret sauce – Our Age. Our experience. Our humor. Our wisdom. Our courage. Our god damn tenacity. We are still here, still fighting, still growing, still changing, still healing despite everything from shitty advertisements, to sexist management, to violent presidential rhetoric, to global pandemics, to crashing economies, to excessive debt, to the demands of parenthood in 2020. We are queer. We are non conforming. We are loud. We march. We speak up. We demand more and better and good things for our neighbors and our children and our elders. We hold each other. We are allies. We are changing the world by changing ourselves.

And we look good as hell doing it.

*Note:* Except racists addicted to orange tans, cheap hair dye, and brown nosing. You all look absolutely ridiculous.

Functionally Alive

Okay, here’s the thing. To everyone on Forbes’ 30 under 30 list – bra-fucking-vo. You are the gifted and talented and frankly, I am in awe. Look at you, you wild sons of bitches.

To everyone else already in their 30’s feeling like they blew it and are now stuck in whatever hellscape being a millenial in the US *is* – I’ve got good news. You are not in your 30’s. I mean sure, your body has been chugging along for 30+ years now. But can you really call life before say – 15 – living? You have almost no agency, no critical thinking skills, and due to us living before the internet – very limited access to information outside of your adults. I realize libraries existed but if you have ever visited a rural library in the late 90’s – then you know about how white bias can affect libraries. That and funding. Anyway. Was what we did before that really forging our path through life? No. Not here, anyway. I had been to a few different states. I had been force fed a whole lot of toxic Christianity. I regurgitated beliefs like facts on a test, both of which I did exceedingly well. I had kind of exerted a little influence over my sense of style but much of that was due to being unable to get many new clothes, but the other part was again, living in rural Iowa where I was not bombarded with advertisements all day.

What I’m saying is this: I have been doing this living thing with the choices and the agency and the relationships and the responsibilities for, at most, around 17 years. And that is giving myself a solid 14 years of adolescent cushion because it has been about 3 years now that I have been actively addressing my mental and emotional health, finding information at the source for myself, unlearning toxic spirituality, and pursuing the life I want instead of the one that was wanted for me.

So I’m not 32 and late to the game – I’m 17 and right on time. Or, even better, I’m 3 and precocious as hell. Either way.

It’s not that I’m 32 and will probably die between 80 and 90 and thusly have 2/3 of my life in front of me. It’s that my life, my ability to make my own choices, the ability to heal myself from what happened as I was forming, etc just started. I’m just getting the hang of this. Literally everything is in front of me and I’m barely past the tutorial.

Let’s make our lives what we want them to be. Starting now. Let’s build a foundation on which to stack the next 50+ years and not assume the shitty one that was given to us is our only option. Or our best option. Or the most secure. I refuse to say that because I have not had wild success at 32 that I am not going to get it.

I know we cannot just will our circumstances away. I know that we are millenials mostly and that we are trying to claw our way out of wells we never wanted to be in while the older generation remembers, loudly, how wells were only 2ft deep in their time and they could just step right out and how lazy we must be to not do the same. And then continue to be extremely bad at math and write and pass legislature that keeps us buried. I know. I also know how my only two options are to marvel at the injustice of it all or to keep clawing.

But I can always change me. I can always get better at something that brings me joy. I can always continue to heal. I can always reach out to others and tell them they are not alone. I can always remind myself that we are more than what we are dealt – or even the first couple of hands if we’re being honest.

I want to be very clear as I wrap this up that this post was never intended to be a ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’ and ‘hustle harder’ etc. Fuck that shit. Medicare for all. Housing is a right. Tax the rich. Defund the police. Free college. We all deserve to rest. Living wages. Freedom from high interest debt. What I am trying to say is never listen to the voices that tell you it’s too late to change yourself. That you can’t learn that new skill. That it’s too late to be the person you want to be. That you can’t try again. That you’re too old to get in shape. Too old to learn to code. Too old to try that tiktok dance. Too old to tell off your racist relative. Too old to change your political party. Too old to heal. Too old to change your mind. Too old to change your religion. Too old to say sorry. Too old to say “I was wrong”.

We are only just beginning. Every moment, every choice left is always in front of us and it is NEVER too late.

1,600 sq. ft. and still no place for towels

Tonight is a short rant. Like a long tweet for the precise reason that I am not concise. I have my gripes with every generation except Millenials because we are perfect. The end.

But tonight I’m not going to talk about the skyrocketing cost of education, how hypocritical it is to march for unborn babies while denying their born counterparts and their parents the ability to thrive or even survive, why Cheeto Satan should be the death knell for evangelical christianity instead of its poster boy, or why grandma can’t understand why I like kissing girls. No, today I’m ranting about popcorn ceilings. Because WHY?

WHY WAS THIS EVER A THING? You know what we should put on the ceiling, Brenda? SHIT. Shit that is going to catch every speck of dust flying around here. And we’ll do it FOR FASHION.

And while we’re at it, Bob, let’s design houses in the literal dumbest way possible and waste as much space as we can. IT’S BRILLIANT.

Understandably, you might have guessed from this post that my house has popcorn ceilings and storage issues and you would be correct. But so does every single house that every single friend I have, regardless of age, gender, or location lives in. They were all designed spectacularly poorly. And honestly, I have not the foggiest understanding of why.

How does such poor design make money? Surely it doesn’t save it. You could house double the families in the same amount of space if someone just thought to themselves, “I bet these people use towels in the bathroom. Let’s plan for that.” Instead, the designers of my home decided that it was a most excellent idea to make the entryway a narrow hallway of, I shit you not, 12 feet and include a small, useless closet whose door opens out to block any entry into the home. It’s some fucking brilliant stuff.

I once visited a friend in Germany and stayed with her and her family in their townhome and while the size of the garages did indeed give me anxiety, those houses were amazing. It was the most practical, convenient, and honestly beautiful design I have ever seen. Every square inch had a purpose and a function. There was storage everywhere. Everything made sense. A family of 5 lived, extremely comfortably, in half the square footage of my home in which we trip over each other constantly while I begin to stroke a mustache I don’t have and fire up the chainsaw in a desperate attempt to avoid another meltdown over storage space.

If you find yourself asking, are you one of those tiny home people? Please know my answer is no. I’m not saying we should all get by on a meticulously planned 100 sq ft because frankly, I like baths too much and also, I have a tooty booty and want my partners to stay in love with me. But this whole ‘Here’s some space let’s fuck it up with shit tile, textured surfaces, and awkward closets’ has got to go.

If there is one thing that the next generation that has wealth to build custom homes and/or own a home building company does (no worries, Gen Z, you’re right in the fucked boat with us, but maybe one day there will rise a new breed of human that understands that water and air are more important than hoarding billions)- please, please, for the sanity of every person – design houses for people to actually live in them. End rant.