We’re also renting out the dog to sleep between unmarried people in order to prevent anything untoward from happening.
Here’s a better shot of the whole dining room arrangement.
Isn’t she cute?
Sometimes, the best thing about blogging is that you’ll be struggling to figure out how to say something and just when you’ve given up, someone will come along and articulate it. So, today, in the threat about Rev. Warren being a big ole fat slob over at Shakesville, Chris Clarke says (among other things) this:
What the fat insults say, when it comes right down to it, is that those of us who are fat are on notice. We can escape mockery and condemnation by our supposed allies as long as we behave the way they decide is correct and appropriate, but as soon as we veer from strict agreement with and support of those “allies,” it becomes open season on our fat asses.
And lord knows I don’t want to reopen that whole other can of worms, but I hope it’s obvious that this is more broadly applicable (which, when you think about it, is a fitting pun). You can read through and change all the “fat”s to “girly”s and see how it works when we’re discussing women’s place in progressive politics. And, actually, anyone’s place in progressive politics.
Blah blah blah. Everything I’ve thought to write about today can best be summed up as “there’s a bunch of stupid shit going on and people are getting hurt.” I just can’t bear to write about it. I’m in a funk and surrounded by this cloud of sadness. I keep walking into it, like a spot of too-warm water in the pool.
I have this dream that a short woman speaks a language I don’t know–which doesn’t matter because I can’t hear her anyway in my dream–and she’s trying to tell me something to tell… I don’t know… someone and I can’t understand her and she can’t make herself understood and it makes both of us weepy. So, I don’t know.
The God thing continues to be an issue this lovely visit from my parents because my dad is convinced that his life is so great right now because he’s being repaid for being a faithful servant of his god. We were driving from Christmas party to Christmas party talking about the new house and I was saying how funny I found it that folks have asked me if I have any regrets about buying the house, as if being frozen in regret is just a natural thing that happens in the first couple of months after you buy a house and my Dad is all “You should have used that as a chance to tell them that you didn’t have any regrets because you know God led you to that house.”
I should fight with him about this, but I’ve lost as fire for it lately. I mean, he knows what my beliefs are. He knows how much I hated and resented being roped into supporting his ministry while he was still active. And yet, here we are, back again at this place where his assumptions about who I am and how the world works are just the defacto truth.
I don’t know. I could go on about it, but it doesn’t do any good. I just want to be seen by the people that love me as myself. And the Butcher drives me crazy, but he’s the only one who does see me, I think.
I just really don’t want to do God’s work. I don’t want to hear about Him creeping around my life rearranging things behind the scenes to work out in whatever way depending on His mood at the moment. I want to be left alone. I want things to be where I left them.
Anyway, the word is that my nephew’s mom is divorcing his abusive asshole stepdad. I hope it actually happens. This is, of course, proof that God answers prayers. No word on why God would stick a defenseless kid in a house unprotected from a guy who beats the shit out of him and his mom, but I guess there’s always some reason–the nephew will do something later in life for which God is already punishing him; the kid would have been doing some really crappy stuff right this minute if God had not stuck him with these trials; whatever. God has his reasons; God is good; so it’s all His fault, but not really, please don’t be mad at us, God, but anyway, there’s nothing we can do.
My brother still does not know for sure where his other kid is. But we have to trust that God will keep him safe.
To bring this back to full-circle, I feel kind of lost lately, like the stars to navigate by are too dim and the paths I’m most familiar with take me places I can’t stand to go again.
So, last night we were pulling out of my driveway on our way to Red Lobster…
Oh god I know! Every time my parents come down we go to Red Lobster like we’re pretending to be Republicans. But folks, try to understand, Red Lobster is our classy restaurant, the place we would scrimp and save to be able to go to on our birthdays when we were little and no amount of realizing now its inherent shmuckiness is going to take it away from us. We go. We behave like buffoons. (Summary of our conversation last night. “How is your friend with the weird blood condition?” “Pissed off. At the least, she’s going to be on medication for the rest of her life.” “I saw on her Facebook page that she said her doctor was a penis head.” “See, you just don’t want to be going around calling your doctor a penis head. What if you have to eat your words?” “Dad!” “What? I’m retired. I can make blowjob jokes in public.” “Oh my god! Not unless you’re going to order a stiff drink so I can roll my eyes at the people who are staring right now and make like you just can’t behave yourself when you’ve had a couple.” “Maybe it’s just the Methodist minister in me, but I just can’t abide by people putting that poison into themselves.” “So, the Methodist minister in you stops you from drinking but not from loudly talking about blowjobs?” “That makes sense to me.” “Yes, thank you, Butcher for encouraging him.”) We feel like we’ve done some mild social transgressions and eaten.
But where was I?
Oh, yes, coyote or what?
So, we’re coming out of the driveway and we see an animal coming out of the woods next to the across the street neighbor’s, walk across their yard, and trot behind the other neighbor’s house.
And then we had a big fight over what it was. The Butcher thought it was a wolf. I didn’t think we had wolves in Tennessee. (Though I look now and see the red wolf has been reintroduced out east.) My dad thought it was some kind of Husky, but it had really long skinny legs in proportion to its body and I didn’t think it was furry enough considering that it’s been cold enough for our animals to all put on a winter coat. But the Butcher thought the body looked too full to be a coyote, but I said that, if coyotes get a winter coat, that could make it look fuller.
The main reason we all came to conclude that it wasn’t a coyote is that it seemed to be completely unconcerned about coming out of the woods, trotting through the stream of our headlights, and around the house and at dog speed. The only other time I’ve seen what I knew was a coyote was back in town, coming out of a neighbor’s yard and heading back into the gulch where the traintracks are, even though it wasn’t in a particular hurry, it seemed to cover more ground than this animal did and was more stealthy.
So, I don’t know what it was. I’m leaning towards strange looking dog.