"Under qualified white man gets the job" is not groundbreaking or historical.

Wow.  What an amazing and unusual and historical election.

<shrug>

Notsomuch.

I have spent a lot (OMG a lot, so, so much angry and weepy time) trying to figure out the fevered rationalizations of the 42% of American women who voted for Donald Trump.

Not that anyone particularly needs to brush up on the horrors, but this man is a confessed sexual predator.  He rates the value of women solely on where he deems they fall on a scale of hotness, bangability & willingness to tolerate the (we can only imagine to be incompetent) fumbling approaches of his tiny, clammy baby-man hands and moist sphincter mouth.

Jesus.  I apologize.  I am sorry.  I am so, so sorry for the totally accurate image that paints for you all.  You can almost feel his fetid, humid breath on the back of your neck, can't you?

I digress.  In a nutshell, a crude, weak, man in power who disrespects, devalues, demeans, and violates women multiple times on a daily basis as he moves through the privileged world he inhabits.  Same old, same old.  How can women vote for someone who disrespects their existence so much so that he  doubles down on it during his campaign and doesn't even bother to try and be worthy of the vote he probably thinks they shouldn't have?

Wait.  Same old, SAME OLD.  That's why.  That's how.  His attitude and treatment, his judgement and dismissal, this is just the same old thing that girls and women everywhere in they country ignore, repel, and rise above every single day.  It does not represent a change in the life or environment for anyone - a Trump presidency just mean we women break even.  He is more crude, open and honest about it than your average bear, sure,  and once he is in office perhaps there are a few more neanderthals in the general population that also bring their hidden misogyny out into the open, but nothing about what he has done or said is particularly novel or even all that interesting to any of us.

 Wait.  What?  We are judged by our appearance?  We are taken less seriously?  We are dismissed as emotional or shrill or humorless when we openly confront sexism in the wild? Our likability is more important than our skills, experience, or intelligence? We willingly stand by as a country and let the media take a 6 times bankrupt business failure reality 'star' who is open about grabbing women by the pussy be elevated as somehow the political equivalent to the most qualified candidate in the history of the nation? Some men think of us as Things and not People?

THIS IS (not) BRAND NEW INFORMATION!!!!!!

It is funny that votes for this piss poor representation of a 'man' are being characterized as "votes for change".  They are anything but.  A vote for a uniquely qualified candidate who has worked in public service their entire adult life, has local, state, and federal government experience, is well respected among both parties (except in an election year, natch) and foreign governments alike who also happens to be a woman for the first time and happens to have 8 years of experience seeing the job up close and personal as First Lady so they know exactly what they are getting into?   THAT is change, people.  That is something that goes a bit against the grain in this country.

Literally nothing about this election is historical except the hysteria.  Until we can change the perception and value and dialogue about how women are treated in our society, a powerful white man who deems us as lesser creatures who exist to be judged and used for his amusement is just another day in America.

Lets use this opportunity as a way to identify and cull from the herd, once and for all, the worst of the worst kind of man.  Those men that are legitimized and validated and freed by the example our President elect (omg, gag) has set and bring the misogyny they had kept under wraps for the sake of political correctness out in the open.

We've got 4 long years. Let's take out the Trash.

Back to the keyboard

I'm here.

I've had a few requests to resurrect this blog (some requests were not even my mother!) so here we go.

Brace yourselves for the next 4 weeks of blistering political commentary.  And then some more.  No matter the outcome, I'm thinking systemic racism and sexism and all the other isms won't be quite fixed all at once.  If Trump wins, I will post as long as I can until he either establishes a dictatorship with no freedom of speech or incites a nuclear holocaust; whichever comes first.

Theres some stuff here going back quite a while.  Rereading it sometimes feels a little bit like reading your middle school diary, but in an even worse way.  :P   Some sad, some funny (I hope) and some maudlin/depressing/borderline pathetic, I am sure.  Turns out I might occasionally get out of the dramatic side of the bed in the morning -- who knew?  I've got bits and pieces of other stuff in various places; I am going to try and get that all up at some point too.  And try and fill in some gaps from when certain things were just too closely held to put on a page.   Maybe it will all come in handy when the boys have kids so I can send them pertinent posts when their own kids are driving them nuts or making them puff up with love so rich you can't even digest it all.

The most recent bits are kinda dad-centric, and maybe a bit.........I dunno.   Heavier than some of the rest?  That sort of loss can weigh you down.

In any case, here it is.   Judge me as you will.  But not, like, out loud to me.  I'm very sensitive.  :P

Year Three

It would come as no surprise to anyone who knew my father that he loved Van Morrison. I grew up to the rollicking sound of Gloria and Brown Eyed Girl and the soothing, poetic Tupelo Honey and Crazy Love. It was something we shared, our love of this music, the way it changed and evolved over time. For a long time, Moondance was our go-to road trip album.
He’d never seen Van the Man in person. In 2010, just a couple of years before he died, Van hit Austin at the Bass Concert Hall. My sisters and I pitched in and bought tickets for Christmas. On the way to the concert I wasn’t sure he totally understood what we were doing, but once we got to the venue he became…..well, the only word I can think of is giddy. I sat next to him during the show, and he was just so damn happy. He may not have known how or why he got there, he certainly didn’t think about anything outside of that concert. It was pure joy to witness it. He was completely engaged and present and just lost in the moment. 
On the way home after the concert he talked about how great it was and how happy he was with the set list. Slowly, of course, the sense that he was really there with us again faded back to the functional vagueness I had become accustomed to.
For the next several months, though, he would tell me, with same spark of giddiness, everything about that concert. He had no recollection that I had been there, but that was fine with me. It simply made me so happy to see him so happy again, with a little bit of that engagement and interest in life back for a fleeting moment. To have the chance to experience his joy, over and over. I would have listened to him tell that story a thousand times. God, I wish I still could, even just once. 
After he died, there was a long list of songs I just could not bear to listen to. The memories just hurt too much. Slowly I was able to endure them and remember wistfully how integral music was in much of the time we spent together. In time, I came to enjoy them again.
The one song I never was able to get to; the final and our favorite and the closing song of that concert was Into The Mystic. A beauty about love and longing and death and ultimately peace. I will listen to that today. Because he would love to know that I had.

Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly
Into the mystic

3 years. I love you, Dad.

Gaaahhhhh.

I'm depressed.  I hate it. 

This happens every so often.  I am certain there is a rhyme or reason that I am just unaware of.  Hormones, lunar cycles, whatever.  I've never been able to pin it down. 

I notice it creeping up on me.   The need for a pep talk and running through a list of pros and cons of calling in sick before I get out of bed.  (Note:  kids are GREAT for this.  I have to get up no matter what, so I might as well just go to work!) 

It becomes a vague dissatisfaction with everything.  Mostly, a constant, low level yearning for MORE.  More what I don't exactly know.  More help from the kids dad.  More attention from my friends.  More from the people I love.  The bitch of it is that there is never enough more.  You literally cannot love me enough to fix it, because thats an external solution to an internal problem.  It has taken me years to learn that - years and relationships.  I want to shout "I'M UNHAPPY!!!  MAKE IT BETTER!!!" but there really isn't any point, because you can't. 

Replaced

Zachary started kindergarten.

I feel so lucky that he has Drew's kindergarten teacher.  She is wonderful - smart, sweet, kind, loving.  Basically everything you want your kids kindergarten teacher to be.

She is also, as Zachary REPEATEDLY mentions, prettier than me. 

Me: Zachary, are you liking kindergarten?

Zachary: Yes!  I love Miss Rinehart!

Me: Yeah, she is very nice, isn't she?

Zachary: Yes.  And also prettier than you.

Me:  Well, I'm glad you like her and think she is nice.

Zachary:  And prettier.

Me: Yes.  Well.  She *is* very pretty, but it is more important that she is smart and kind and wants to help you learn.

Zachary: And she is pretty.  I think I won't marry you, I will marry her.


Oh for fucks sake.



I GET THE PICTURE KID.

2 Years

It's been two years since my father died. Everyone says the first year is the hardest. I don't know how true that is. The first year was punctuated with tiny moments of relief – oh, I got through the first Fathers Day/birthday/Christmas without dad! The second year was harder in a way, as the loss settled in and became just a part of who I am. With the Alzheimers, I feel like we have been grieving tiny losses and missing my dad for years, ever since his diagnoses, as he slowly lost himself bit by bit. I don't feel like I miss him any less now. Differently, perhaps.

On some perfect sunny days, I still think "I need to call Dad and have him meet me at Huts for lunch!" and then I realize all over again that he is gone, and the stark reality is that the opportunity to meet him for lunch has been gone for many more years. I miss stealing pens from his desk (or front pocket; I had no shame!). I missed him when I was at the hospital with Drew, waiting for whatever procedure was going on to be over. Dad was a champion waiter in stressful situations. He always had a book, and he could sit for hours, never being annoying or talking too much, just being there steady as granite, there just in case you needed a cup of coffee or a walk. His presence was a comfort always, and I feel so much less grounded waiting on my own.

There are still a handful of songs I can't listen to while driving.

I pass both the Alzheimers home where he died and his sculpture on MoPac daily. I remember that last weekend of his life; the weekend of waiting. Of how ready we all felt we were before he passed and how totally unprepared and shocked we all felt after. I remember my friends gentle love and care for me and their tears on my behalf, and the love in the room at dads memorial.

After all this time, I still can't quite wrap my head around how someone can be there one minute and gone the next. Where did the essence of who he was GO? What happens in the vacuum left behind? I tell Drew & Zak that as long as we remember Granddaddy and his love he is still with us.

Some days I am more convincing than others.

 

Take Action

Today September 21^st is Alzheimers Action Day. My dad died June 5^th of Alzheimers disease.
I think of him every damn day, and I remember the pain of watching him slip away from us and from himself. I still find myself turning the fact that he is gone over and over in my head, just trying to make sense of how he was here, but now he’s not. All that intelligence and kindness and humor and all those hugs, just gone. I occasionally wake up in the middle of the night and realize, all at once like it is the very first time, that I will never hug my dad again. I am unable to sleep the rest of the night, the magnitude of that thought is just too large and looming to live with.
This is what I wrote for his memorial. It’s so weak a representation of who he was, but I can’t imagine anything I could write that would capture him.

First of all, I want to thank you all for coming. I know this is all a bit unconventional, but you all know my father so that can hardly be surprising. This is the sort of gathering he relished – people he loved in a place he loved, sitting back and enjoying each other, listening to some music, and having a laugh.
I see people here from every phase of my fathers life, and it really defines who he was as a person. That there are people here that he has known since grade school tells me that he was a good and loyal friend, his coworkers show me that he was a hard worker and well respected, and the special people who supported my mother and cared for him at the end of his life show me that even as the facets of his personality rounded and faded, there was something special about my father, some spark of humor and wit and honor and character that no one could fail to recognize or be drawn to. Alzheimers had a particularly specific kind of cruelty for my father, one of the most cerebral people I know, but even that juggernaut could not blunt his charm entirely.
I am here to celebrate my father, but I have to say that my heart is good and truly broken. I wanted to tell you a few stories about dad, but the reality is that I could never narrow it down to just a few. We took stained glass classes together and went on road trips. We learned to make arrowheads and he came to my kids pediatrician appointments. We went to Graceland and he took me to his office so I could see his work. We went to concerts and ball games and sewage treatment plants and Laguna Gloria. Quite simply, my father was always there, always a presence in my life.
When my first son was born I called my dad from the hospital, suddenly terrified of the responsibility looming over me, confident I was going to screw it all up and my dad told me “Julie, the only thing you need to give that baby is peanut butter, some dirt, and love.” Growing up, we all had ample supplies of each, and even when I was furious at my dad for whatever the perceived parental injustice of the day was, I never, ever doubted his love for me. Like most kids, I thoughtlessly took my dad for granted as a child, but as an adult I realize how lucky I am to not only have had a father that I loved and who loved me in return, but a father that I truly liked and who liked me right back.
When I was very young, I was a really horrible sleeper. Late in the night one winter, my dad came to my room and without a word bundled me into my jacket and put me in the car. He drove and drove to the outskirts of Austin, put me on the hood of the car, and told me to look up. There was an amazing meteor shower that night, and we watched the shooting stars together for a good long while, and then he took me home and tucked me back into bed. That was the sort of thing my dad did well – the unexpected, special moments, the random postcard or short story that showed up in the mail, handing you the most perfect gift you never knew you had always wanted.
I will long for my father when I read a great book I want to talk about, hear a Van Morrison song, get frustrated by a math problem of any kind, eat a Theta burger at Huts, or see any of the million places we went to together in Austin. So pretty much always. But especially when I see a shooting star.