Ooo, the Wind!

You can hear it whipping around outside and the wind chimes are ringing like crazy. It almost sounds like we are in a big jug someone is blowing across the lip of and it makes me wonder whether that’s true, that the shape of the hills might make a noise when a strong enough wind comes over them.

My aunt wants us all to go to Illinois for my grandma’s birthday. I think that will be the weekend I go up to go to Watseka, so it’s not too bad for me. I don’t know if my brothers will be able to go. It depends on whether they’ve found work. I get afraid for them, when I think about how tenuous a grasp on respectable society they have. And I am afraid for me, being our only means of support, in a dying industry, with little I know how to do myself.

Oh, they’ll always need someone who can write! That’s what I tell myself. But the truth is that I’m not flexible. I have such daring friends and acquaintances who start new businesses and do new things and I do what I do because I’ve done it and because I need the health insurance and because, in a world full of shitty jobs, mine is nice and I like one thing in my life to be fairly certain.

Anyway, the thing about my grandma’s birthday and whether my brothers will be able to go to it is that my grandma is 92. This is the first time in my whole life I remember any kind of attempt at a whole family gathering, other than my grandpa’s funeral. And, of course, she’s 92, so, if we’re going to try to get together as a family, we’d better do it soon.

But it’s weird, too, like, let’s pretend to be what we wish we’d bothered to be at the last moment.

But it’s not even that. I think my aunt probably decided that families get together for the matriarch’s birthday. Not that my grandma is a matriarch, mind you. But my aunt has a feeling this is what people do and so she’s going to try to see if she can make it happen.

I hope she just checked with my grandma to make sure she wants everyone to get together, because, bless her heart, my grandma has become more plainspoken in her old age. If she’s tired and overwhelmed by everyone being there, she’ll have no qualms about making that clear.

But, bless her heart, it would not be surprising to learn my aunt was making these plans without consulting with my grandma.

I need to ask my mom whether Grandma actually wants to have a birthday party. I don’t know. It just seems strange. If she wanted a birthday party, you’d think she’d just throw one. She’s not the kind of woman who likes to have things planned for her. I think she perceives it as having things done to her.

I think she’ll be happy to see everyone. I just think she’s at a point in her life where it will be easier for her to manage it if she’s consulted and considered.

If we were going to be the kind of family who all surprised a woman on her birthday with everyone, we probably should have done that before now.

The TMI Post to End All TMI Posts, at least for this month

So, a while back, when the Butcher had the bug to end all bugs, I was in the shower in our one bathroom when he burst in and said “Don’t come out” and proceeded to poop in a small, enclosed space, while I was trapped in the shower, while he apologized profusely and was suitably embarrassed. And it was terrible. Oh, god, the smell was so bad. And I remarked at the time how this seemed like a cruel trick of nature because, though it’s been 30 years, since the Butcher is my baby brother, I have indeed smelled his shit before, regularly, as I was changing his diapers.

Is six young to change diapers? It didn’t seem so at the time, though, in retrospect, that may explain how the ceiling was frequently peed on. Sorry people living in the parsonage in Coal City. I hope they’ve painted that ceiling since we were there. Otherwise? Dried Butcher pee, flaking off, right above the sink. Enjoy!

Anyway, it seems like, just as a coping mechanism to keep baby-care-takers changing said poopy babies, that, much like you can’t really smell the horrendousness of your own shit, you should come to be immune to the true horrendousness of the baby’s shit and then–wishful thinking here, I know–from that person’s shit for the rest of your life.

But here’s the deal. Not only does Nature dick you over in that regard, Nature has dicked me over again! So, I’ve been having some issues since Saturday. Like wake up in the middle of the night knowing you need to go to the bathroom immediately but unsure if you can actually stand to walk to the bathroom without throwing up. And I’m pretty sure I have sussed out what is causing said issues and am rectifying my diet to fix things.

Okay. Fine.

But a major effect of this vast terrible pooping spell? I, myself, smell it in all it’s terrible glory. My shit does stink! To me! So bad I can barely stand to go to the bathroom.


This is a design flaw, if there ever was one.

Ha, you know, this is exactly why I’m never going to be a well-respected feminist blogger. Widely-read, maybe, but well-respected? I write about poop.

Well, what can you do?

Members of Our Congressional Delegation Declines to Tell the Media what “Forcible Rape” Is

Tracy Moore called Marsha Blackburn, Scott DesJarlais, Phil Roe, and John Duncan to find out just when it is they think a woman has been raped enough for it to count as forcible. Like, if he restrains me, but doesn’t punch me, am I not raped enough? If he drugs me but waits until he’s done to kick me, is that not enough? How come, if a dad rapes his daughter on the eve of her 18th birthday, that’s enough, but on the night of her 18th birthday, it’s not? If a dad rapes his 13 year old daughter, that’s enough, but if some random 40 year old does, that’s not?

How is this a clear standard?

And, like I asked yesterday, what kinds of sick fucks want to sit around and contemplate rape scenarios to decide which are bad enough?

Even if you’re anti-abortion, that should leave a very bad taste in your mouth.