Cat, the idiot asshole

So, I have this cat I adopted, because she needed a home.  I do that, because I can't help it.  This particular cat has an actual name, but in my head, I always call her "The Idiot Asshole"

This poem is dedicated to her.

You are so pretty,  so fluffy, so nice from afar.
You purr very nicely. You sound like a car.
You get by on looks, and not on your soul.
for Fluffy White Kitty - you are an asshole.

You are stupid, you often miss when you pee.
You ask for more food when the food's plain to see.
You hiss at anything that walks by
Oh Fluffy White Kitty, you're an asshole. Why?

Why do you hiss when being ignored?
Why do you bite when you're being adored?
Why are you such a bitch of a cat?
Fluffy White Kitty, an asshole. You're that.

The importance of daddies

I mentioned earlier this month that my father had passed away.  I have accepted this fact, and I continue to grieve his absence in the world. I try to do it quietly for the reasons that loss of a loved one is personal, I'm usually private about my own feelings, and I am not good at accepting sympathy.  It's just going to be hard and strange and weird. I know this. I don't want to inflict it on other people.    It just takes time to adapt to the reality that your daddy isn't available any more.

My dad was 65. In this era of modern medicine, that is not very old.  People have said "Oh, that's so young!" and it is. And too soon.  And not fair.  What they don't know is all of the history that I know about my dad.  That he had to help support his younger siblings because his own father was an abusive alcoholic.  That he spent some critical developmental years with poor nutrition.  That he served as an artillery gunner in Vietnam, exposed to war, death, chemicals and fear at an age when most young people are considering colleges and careers. He smoked to stay calm.  He worked as a welder when he came back.  He used his body entirely up in order to provide for the family he made with my mom.  

He was sometimes cranky, short tempered, easily annoyed when he thought his kids should already know how to do something,  prone to seeing what WASN'T finished instead of seeing the things already complete. He was not quick to praise.  He was gruff.  But he always loved us, and we always knew it.  He had a ridiculously soft spot for animals, fast cars, and songs from the 50's & 60's - especially Buddy Holly, Elvis, and the Everly Brothers.  He always sang along, off key, and loudly,  and he didn't care.  I loved that. I miss that.

So I am missing my dad.  But I would not wish him back.  He retired from mining and welding after 30 years.  He had heart disease, high blood pressure, kidney failure, intestinal polyps and ulcers,  and COPD.  He'd had 3 heart attacks, 5 stents, a triple bypass, a valve replacement, and a ridiculous number of blood transfusions.  He was tired all the time.  He did everything he was able to do to keep his home running, until the only things he could do were go to get the mail, and wash the breakfast dishes, and that was enough in day.  He was too young to die,  but his body was too old to keep living.

My dad's death certificate says that he died of respiratory failure, which is true.  He just got too weak to keep breathing on his own.  What it doesn't say is that he fought for a month to get better, to stay alive, to keep trying to be there for my mom.  He loved her and didn't want her to have to miss him.  "I love you, Sarah. I'm so sorry."  was the last thing he could say to her.   It is a wonderful, heartbreaking thing to see that kind of love between parents - and feels like a rare and precious thing to me that I could witness that moment.

I had to say goodbye to my daddy this year. It is hard. It is horrible. It was time.   I don't want him to come back, because I love him.  I don't want to ever forget all of the things I learned from him about life, and what love looks like when you never learned how to show love as a dad.   I think the most important one was this - love is an action verb, and if you use up your whole life in that action - it was a damn good life.

Ladies don't cuss

I didn't know this about myself until recently, but I'm a pretty vehement feminist.   The surest way to piss me off is to tell me I can't do something because I'm a girl, or to try to limit my actions because of being "too pretty to _____."

It's hard to admit to being a feminist, there seems to be some backlash against the word,  like wanting to be treated as an important contributor to a healthy society is somehow equal to being a man-hating lunatic.  Nope. I'm a feminist because, guess what? I like men.

I'm a feminist because I'm female.  It means I don't believe either gender is superior. I don't want to have more because historically women have been treated as less.  Equality might feel like "less" if you are used to having more than your share - but accepting less also means you open the door to MORE.

What if you could just be yourself?  What if boys could wear sparkly nailpolish because they thought it was fun, and not get teased because of it.  What if men could say "I'm tired and I just feel a little sad" to their guy friends and get hugged instead of shut down?  What if women could say "I need more money because the skills and talents I bring to my job are worth more" without being labelled a greedy bitch?

I believe men and women should have the chance to be individuals who offer their strengths, talents, and weaknesses to make our world better.   Clearly, a tall person will be better suited to getting things off the top of the refrigerator than a short person. The person who isn't freaked out by spiders should be the one to escort said spiders out of the house.

I want autonomy. I want this for myself.  I want this for my daughter.  I want this for my son.  Equality to be an authentic, honest, SELF.   I want to move away from the unspoken expectations and labels of what "being a good man" or "being a good woman" is,  and make and live in a world that places more emphasis on  being a good human.

---
All of these thoughts came about from a recent conversation I had with a friend about  ladies and gentlemen vs. woman and men  vs. guys and girls

The summary of that discussion:
Ladies and gentlemen dress up and have very formal, polite manners.
Women and men are less dressy, and less formal and might be louder
Guys and girls are younger. Guys could apply to a mixed gender crowd. When asked how they behave - the description used was "Rowdy boys in college."  Boys.  Not girls.
The point being - ladies, women, and girls are not rowdy or loud.  Ladies don't cuss.  Women are not formal.  Girls are not loud.   Those were the unspoken, ingrained cultural expectations.

So fuck that.  I am a feminist. I will cuss.  I will still be a lady when the situation calls for it, but I reserve the right to speak up, to be loud.  To be noisy.  To be called names because I refuse to stick to some ridiculous cultural "norm" that makes no sense and in fact limits the contributions I can make and the recognition that should come with it.

Ladies can cuss. They don't have to, but let silence be your CHOICE, not your default.

Good Sunday

Today, my hashtag for Twitter was #GoodSunday.  Why?  Because I have been feeling poor lately.  I am trying to save money for an addition to my house, as well as decrease my debt load, and start saving for a replacement vehicle.   There is no extra money in the budget, and yet - things still break, the kids needs shoes, etc, ad nauseum.   Also known as - wow, I'd love to win the lottery even if I don't ever play.

I know when I feel broken financially, counting my blessings is the one thing that gets me to re-focus from the stress of money.   Counting things like children who express love for each other,  a visit from my niece and her friend, raised bed garden planters being built by someone who loves me,  pumpkin pie, sunshine, knitting.   They are simple things.  They are worthwhile ways of spending the time I have been given.  Time it turns out, is an even more precious commodity than money.

 I may never be wealthy according to my bank account,  but I know that my life is rich with love and shared experiences. I value and treasure that.  And so - Good Sunday.

There once was a man named Michael Finnegan....

The title references a song that can repeat forever,  thanks to that handy little rhyming phrase "Begin again"
So, beginning again with this blog that should lead to a helpful habit of writing, even when it is hard. Welcome back whoever has missed me.

To bring you up to speed on the big things that have happened since last year:

• My daughter is attending a charter Montessori school.  She loves it. She loves learning. She's a whole new kid in terms of confidence and ability in being able to discuss and address a problem on her own. Changing schools - totally the RIGHT MOVE.
• Son is in kindergarten. He is a natural at school, and I have very few academic concerns for him.  He's reading at a second grade level, started karate this fall, and my only real worry is that he's ridiculously outgoing and affectionate.  Dude doesn't understand the concept of stranger danger.
• Still dating the great guy, probably will do that forever.
• My dad passed away in early April of this year.  That's a post (or more than one) all on it's own.
• I'm working on a novel.  It's in very rough form right now, and needs a lot of attention that I haven't given it lately.

Things I want to write more about here:

• Vegetable gardens, dirt, and worms.
• Cats. (One of mine is an idiot)
• Schools and standardized testing (which is dumb, IMO)
• Bragging about my kids (and sometimes complaining, because parenting is both)
• Other stuff that I think about.
• Dancing.