Category: slice of life

Generic Life Stuff as I go about my days.

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It was, one of many, a Friday night in the 1990s. And because it was in Florida, it was hot, humid, and maybe even rainy– that was perfect weather to stay inside somewhere with a good book, comfort food, and pattering ambiance. We’re not thinking of the classic "novel, cup of tea, chair-next-to-window combo," though. We’re talking about a 90s kid that loved reading, pizza, and long car rides.


It’s one of my favorite memories. There was nothing like walking into a Pizza Hut after a long week of School to receive your reward for reading books: a personal pan pizza. Typically I chose Just Cheese, but would change it up with pepperoni once in a while. But what I loved even better was the hour-long ride home: not only was I privileged enough to have the option of eating in the car, but I was able to munch on my pizza and read some more! And while the weather certainly differed it was the rainy evenings that stand out the most in my memory. What else stood out were the books I read during these drives.


They were comics.

GARFIELD AT LARGE in bold font, with the cat glaring at the word LARGE and thinking "I resent that."
Do you, though?

That’s right. This is my coming out post[1] on how I not only read Garfield for fun, as a child, but to this day I find most of the strips pretty funny… I daresay to the point where they were the building blocks for my sense of humor (or lack of, depending on who you ask), not to mention his various quips earning permanent residence in my Clapback Directory. Garfield also emulated a confidence and sassiness I sorely lacked in my life– reveling in being fat, lazy, and damn fucking proud of it. So, as I installed an app to help me count calories, this particular exclamation popped into my head and I couldn’t help but chuckle.






A frightened Garfield exclaiming that DIET is Die with a T.


While his wiseassery wore off on me– and probably his love for tasty food, If I’m honest– his utter hatred for diets did not. The anti-diet tirade of "Fat, Lazy, and Proud Of It" was taken at face value when I was 10 years old, chalking it up to A Thing Adults Bitch About and I Won’t Understand Until I’m Older, like coffee adoration and hating on Mondays[2]. But the older I grew the more I’ve added my own notes and disclaimers, on top of finding him more relatable beyond a silly punchline. I mean, I have this tendency to put my spin on things, which is both a blessing and a curse.


I’m sure Jim Davis didn’t think too deep into the whole bit beyond "something a gluttonous asshole– you know, a cat– would say," but I now see it as:


    • Fat: refusing to participate in destructive Diet Culture, which necessitates the need to be “Thin Enough” and/or “Fat (in only the good places)” and the mental and physical harm subscribing to it may cause.


    • Lazy: refusing to be productive when capitalism demands it for every moment of your waking life.


    • Proud: no-selling the inevitable guilt-trips and eradicating any shame that may pop up.



In Garfield’s defense and my admittedly shoddy recollection of events: no matter how much he complained, snuck a donut, threatened the scale, or thanked God when Jon read from a newspaper that dieting doesn’t work[3ab]… he still did it. He sucked it up, in his own grumpy way, and celebrated his little victories. I know the struggle of dieting and the joy of getting little cheats in (garnishing a salad with a whole ham? Can’t say I haven’t done similar), so this is a time where I find him Pretty Relatable.


And I’ll do the same. Well, I’ll certainly cheat a lot less. But I’ll make progress, and not beat myself hard when I mess up.


I’m aware of nostalgia and the absurdity of relying on memories from when I was 10, let alone glossing over the overreaching impact of the dieting running gag.[4] Deep critiques will very likely not be kind to Garfield. But hey, when you see me at the gym and I’m giggling through my reps, I’m not giddy from lack of calories– I just have Garfield strips playing in my head.


Which reminds me… I need to log this cinnamon roll.



[1] I can make that joke because I’m queer. šŸ˜‰


[2] Boy, do I get it now. So do a lot of people. And I got a caffeine addiction for my hatred for Mondays.


[3a] Like a lot of Garfield panels, I can see this clearly in my mind’s eye: a Sunday strip starter panel. They’re at the table and Jon is reading from the newspaper; Garfield had fallen to his knees repeatedly saying "thank you." And, like a lot of Garfield panels, are damn hard to find. RIP "garfield.bounceme.net" with their text-searchable database that filled the gaps in my memory for years. You were a real one.


[3b] I also agree with that take. Dieting may not work, but lifestyle changes do. That should be the goal!


[4] According to that wiki, the few times Garfield did diet of his own volition was because he was shamed or humiliated. So, uh, not a great motivator there, actually. The cracks begin to form.

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Two damn cats being nice and civil, laying on a galaxy print blanket.
A fine pair of dinguses. (I can say that because I am also a dingus.)

I live with two cats. They aren’t mine, legally, but we occupy the same household and I help take care of them. We watch shows and lounge in sun spots together, slow blinking at each other. I pretend to look the other way if I drop a particularly tasty crumb of Human Food. Our collective stray hairs makes the discount Roomba seize up.


The “House Panther” (a fancy way of saying black cat) is a greedy old man. He loves to eat: he’ll inhale his meal and immediately edge toward someone else’s bowl or plate. He also enjoys pets and especially belly rubs! His companion– a calico/tabby mix– we ended up nicknaming “Mean Lil Ass,” due to her grumpy-looking face and her fondness for playing rough. She is about 7 years his junior so she still has that kitten energy, to HP’s annoyance.

Pukes McGee (aka "Mean Lil Ass") with their head sticking out from BEHIND the cabinet. I was late to work that day getting her out. Wording on the image includes: BOOM! in a blue explosion emoji, Hoooot!! and XD in speech bubbles. Caption reads "Pukes McGee in Cabinet Capers."
HOW DID SHE DO THAT?

Together, they can be annoying jerks!


Like I said, the House Panther loves to eat. And he is impatient. So he meows. In your face. And he will paw at the noisiest, most annoying material he can find until you feed him. And that kitten energy has MLA writing checks that her fur can’t cash. Fur literally flies, and she will give back just as good– and louder. Have you ever jolted awake to Super Smash Bros sound effects from beneath your bed? It’s pretty harrowing and I do not recommend it.


But they’re cats. They do cat stuff. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense, other times it’s infuriating. Most times it’s still pretty funny.


MLA enjoys pushing things and hiding in small crevices. She loves to run and jump and have the expensive flatscreen TV wobble from her effort. HP loves to TELL YOU ABOUT IT, at 2 in the morning when you’re supposed to be sleeping and somehow, his meows are the right pitch to evade your earplugs and white noise– if only for the chance to butter you up with kitty snuggles before demanding his breakfast 3 hours early. Both would love to make off with an entire chicken if they could (and honestly, you can’t really blame them). There’s claw marks in the couch. Litter gets in my shoes. They get up to antics and Silly Shit. They make goofy faces. Both love being where they shouldn’t be. And I still don’t know what they’re looking at, over there.

House Panther, a black cat, lounging on the couch with a few issues of Heavy Metal and a Bomb-omb toy.
We enjoy a classic sci-fi magazine now and then.

I remind myself that they are Not a People no matter how many times they can stand on their hind legs. That’s just how kitties do. Whenever they irritate me I try to take a deep breath and think: what do they need? What do they want? You know, instead of just chucking a pillow at them or using the CatSoaker9000. I can do something more constructive– and not punish the cat, I learned too late in life!– like checking their water bowl (and to see if it is meal time), or add another cat tree to the grocery list, and spending quality time with them.


Cats may be independent, but they get lonely, too. They are Banished from my room during bedtime due to their antics, so I try to make time for them by hanging out, or pulling out some Cat Enrichment with catnip. And pet them, of course.


Besides, I can always use more patience.


As much as I can complain (and I do!), I do love my rowdy cohabiters. You can tell due to the myriad of nicknames I have for them both.


A highly-bright filtered image of two cats; one a grayish tabby and the other a black cat. Captioned in a jaunty font: The Adventures of Pukes McGee & Mr. Heft.

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So I have a funny story.


Years and years ago– in the Before Times– I matched with someone on Hinge. We had a good chat. But I declined to progress further because I would have had to move to a voice memo service. “Who wants to install an app just to talk to one person?” I thought; “Besides, I am a texter. Also my phone only has 20 gigs and no space.” So that was the end of that.


Or was it?


Several years later– after the Before Times and solidly in the Current Times– I was trying out Yet Another Online Dating Thing: Facebook Dating. I matched with a few people, but most fizzled out. I did manage to at least trade phone numbers with another non-binary person and… I matched with this someone again. It wasn’t too much of a coincidence; we were both on Facebook and even in the same groups. But, eventually, that fizzled out too. So that was the end of that, right?


You know how I love doing things in threes; you know it isn’t.


Becoming exceedingly frustrated, I was taking my mind off the swiping and was (re)answering questions on OKCupid.[1] I even updated my profile a little bit. Then the boredom kicked in and I caught myself swiping. And there was that Someone in just a few swipes! For dramatic effect, let’s pretend that this didn’t happen over several days of bored swiping.


That’s it, I thought. One Time is Coincidence and Twice is a Pattern, potentially. Three times? I don’t know, but this is the point where I’m curious and brave enough to find out.


So I sent the first message. “We just keep running into each other, huh?” Or something worded to that effect; I am recalling from memory. I even mentioned our very first conversation together because– guess what, I even use their preferred service now![2] And despite a few hiccups in initial communication– from us not quite going the same speed on things, to me getting Pandemic’d— it appears to not be the end! We had one date at a coffeehouse, and we’ve been talking where we can, and we do have plans to hang out again once our lives settle down a bit more.


While there was the usual frustrations of online dating, I really had to sit with myself for a minute. I have a feeling my polysaturation[3] point is near. While in the process of scheduling another date (at this time of writing), I’m still riding off the fuzzy feelings of a very recent Cuddle Date on a potential partner’s couch. Between that, and making time for my current partners, and ensuring that I have enough Introvert Downtime to remain functioning– it’s becoming a lot.


So, the apps have been uninstalled and most profiles deactivated. Google Calendar, however, is getting a workout.


—


[1] In short, OKC is the one I keep coming back to. It allows me to filter out straight people (no offense, but full offense; y’all stress me out) and monogamous people (I’m doing y’all a favor; trust me). Also all those questions and percentages to gauge how you may jive with someone (just be sure to not depend solely on it).


[2] While I’m still primarily a texter, I’ve softened up considerably about voice memos. Quite a few of my people prefer them so I try to meet their needs. Voice memos are sometimes more convenient– and can be fun, too!


[3] Polysaturation is defined here as “the state in which a person doesn’t want or need more relationships than they currently have.” While polysaturation can be “satisfying or exhausting,” I’m feeling pretty content with my current setup. I’m also slowing my roll before it becomes exhausting for everyone involved.

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What Happened?!


I was leaving my house for a date; we have holiday decorations up and a bat flew into my face. It could have been a bird, but it was dusk (peak bat time!) and we do have bats that like to hang around and eat bugs. Bat (or bird) was nesting in the wreath hanging in our front door. After a few hours worrying and waffling I decided to go to the ER.


How Did It Go?


The ER visit was surprisingly fast; two hours tops. A doctor came in, asked what happened, and gave his recommendation. While it was a low-risk incident for contacting rabies, undergoing the vaccination process was ultimately up to me. And I decided to– by the time this is posted, I’d have my last shot!


Wait, ‘Last’?


Yup. While they are no longer administered in the stomach, there’s still a bunch of shots over the course of a month! Specifically on “Day 0,” then on day 3, 7, 14, and 28. As of drafting out this post, my last shot will be in two weeks.


Day 0 was easily the most stressful! In addition to the anxiety of potential rabies exposure, the initialization was 4 shots– one for each arm and leg. However, subsequent visits were only 1 shot.


Anything Else Happened?


I also called 311 and spoke to Animal Control. Since they were unable to reach me by phone, they visited me while I was in the ER. I recounted my story and showed them footage from our doorbell camera. The officers were unable to say for sure if it was a bat or a bird, but did not deny the possibility of it being a bat.


What Did It Cost You?


I live in the United States, for the record. So far, my insurance managed to cover it.


OK, Tell Me Again, but Make It Entertaining.


Seriously?


Haha, yeah. I want those goofy details.


And onto the original draft.


Continue reading →

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THE HOLIDAY KWANZAA is a product of creative cultural synthesis. That is to say, it is the product of critical selection and judicious mixture on several levels. First, Kwanzaa is a synthesis of both Continental African and Diasporanl (sic) African cultural elements. … Secondly, the Continental African components of Kwanzaa are a synthesis of various cultural values and practices from different Continental African peoples. … And finally, Kwanzaa is a synthesis in the sense that it is based, in both conception and self-conscious commitment, on tradition and reason.

https://www.officialkwanzaawebsite.org


KuchuQwanzaa is in large part based on the traditional Kwanzaa holiday, but seeks to infuse queer ideology, principles, and values to establish a space for Black LGBTQIA+ folks to celebrate our unique culture, history, and contributions. In the spirit of inclusivity, we invite anyone who shares the core principles of KuchuQwanzaa to celebrate it.

https://www.kuchuqwanzaa.com/about


So after Christmas, we go straight into Kwanzaa. It begins on the 26th of December and it ends on New Year’s Day. Kwanzaa is a holiday created by a Black American man in order to celebrate our heritage, culture, and ancestors. In addition, KuchuQwanzaa was created with these same goals in mind, but to also honor our Black LGBTQ expression. Both incorporate libations, candles, gift giving and food.


For these seven days I reflect on the principles of Kwanzaa and KuchuQwanzaa. I think about what each means to me and how it manifests in my life, and how I can keep them in mind for the future.


(I have also tooted daily via Mastodon; you can check out the #AlbisKQwanzaa tag for the topmost posts for the longer threads.)



The First Day


Umoja


“Unity,” the Principle for the first day of Kwanzaa. This was an “easy” one to reflect on, and an excellent start to this holiday (considering how online I tend to be)… my immediate thought was BlackMastodon, BlackTwitter, BlackFediverse. We find each other and support each other, pushing back against the typical whiteness of most online platforms. As Twitter burns, it has been uplifting to see so many of us on Mastodon. I may stick around this time.


Imani


KuchuQwanza has two Principles on the first day: in addition to Umoja, it also has Imani, or “Faith.” My initial thought was to assume faith meant the religious sort, and I believe my initial thought to be erroneous. And if not, well– I’m not the religious sort anyway; I strive to at least be spiritual despite my casual relationship to it for the moment.


I have faith in myself (I generally do the right thing), my people (though, cynic that I am, my faith in people takes a hit when confronted with misogynoir and queerphobia– but is generally restored when it is called out and abolished), and the natural world. I also hope to honor my ancestors in how they interpreted the forces of nature and their gods, be it observing the holidays or practicing herbalism.


The Second Day


Kujichagulia


“Self-Determination,” or why I hate the “we don’t need labels!” or “we’re all human!” rhetoric. Our differences make us who we are, and labels can further define yourself on your own terms. I am Black, Queer, Transgender. Some labels are “given,” but I have chosen the rest.


I also reflect on the representation of our people, and not just us being mere “tokens.” I am here, and I exist, and you will hear me. Everyone contains multitudes and different aspects of themselves; Black people not a monolith. When Whoopi Goldberg saw Nichelle Nichols as Uhura on the screen, it opened so many possibilities for her. We can also be “these things,” despite the overculture trying to tell us otherwise. And that is still important today.


AFYA


The world is tough enough as it is, so we also have to take care of our bodies and mental health. I’m glad to see that the stigma for therapy and medication is waning– but we can still work on this. The queer community is still recovering from the AIDS crisis, and I still hear negative comments about getting help for what’s ailing your brain.


Get tested, and often, especially if you have multiple partners. Eat your vegetables, take walks, turn off the news and stop doomscrolling when it becomes too much. All these are things that I do within the KuchuQwanzaa Principle of AFYA, or “Health.”


The Third Day


Ujima


“Collective work and responsibility.” I’ll be very blunt here: If your pro-Blackness dehumanizes the further marginalized, it’s fucking trash. I also found it fitting that this was the day I discovered KuchuQwanzaa– LGBTQ voices and celebrations must be uplifted. This is our work, and our responsibility.


Nyumba


It literally means “house,” and houses, to me, mean family and community. Our relationships to each other help sustain us, past and present. Every interaction accumulates to a “I see you:” from The Nod as you walk past a stranger, to commenting support on a post, to giving your mom a call and (not maliciously!) pestering your sibling.


The Fourth Day


Ujamaa


Black Capitalism ain’t gonna save us– it’s still Capitalism. If we’re still trampling each other to make money, that is the capitalism machine working just as intended. Buy Black (sites like Miiriya makes this easier!), participate in mutual aid, gas up your friend’s Etsy shop!


Elima


I did not know about KuchuQwanzaa until this year! So, I found it fitting to mention that on the fourth day of this holiday– the Principle is Elimu, or Education. In a world where LGBTQ folks are still being persecuted, I find it very important to highlight not just our struggles, but to celebrate our contributions to communities and culture.


The Fifth Day


Nia


“Purpose.” I am reflecting on– what is my purpose in life? To be supportive, confounding, to call out bullshit, and eat cookies and cream ice cream, and to exist. It sounds pretty simple, but I’ve mostly made peace with the fact that I don’t need something grand for my day-to-day. And that is enough.


“Just existing” in each of our varied truths may not sound much for a purpose, but for Queer people it is the whole world. We have lives beyond someone else’s moral lesson, or a tragic Netflix movie, or a sensational headline.


I’ve also personal projects and yeah, that is purposeful. I have my writing and poetry– a good purpose, indeed! I am trying to get into more VTubing and gaming, too.


The Sixth Day


Kuumba


I’ll take this moment to talk about some of my favorite creative works.


Creativity begets more creativity and inspiration, and there’s something special about holding The Memory Librarian in my hands after the last word was read.

my mastodon ramblings



As I’ve mentioned in length in the post about my vtubing, I am a huge fan of Janelle Monae.
Some other musicians that I have on repeat are:


  • Breezewax

  • Flying Lotus

  • Lalah Hathaway

  • Lil Nas X

  • Mega Ran

  • Princess Nokia

  • Sammus

  • And a lot of stuff from Back in the Day, like Living Color, The Isley Brothers, Toni Braxton, TLC…


And some of my favorite books are:


  • Anything by Nnedi Okorafor; her Binti series was my first read into her work.

  • How to be Black by Baratunde Thurston

  • Falling in Love with Hominids by Nalo Hopkinson

  • The Lilith’s Brood (aka Xenogenesis) series, also by Octavia E. Butler

  • Mind of my Mind (2nd in the Patternist series), also by Butler

  • Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred D. Taylor

  • SLAY by Brittney Morris (psst, you can play the game!)

  • TRIGGER by Venus Selenite


While we’re on the subject of books, The StoryGraph has Nadia Odunayo, a Black woman, as founder and CEO!


Sistah SciFi highlights science fiction from Black and Indigenous people.


I also have several pieces of art from GDBEE hanging around my room.



T Gani?: The Big Black Holidays Post 1
T Gani?: The Big Black Holidays Post 2
T Gani?: The Big Black Holidays Post 3

The Seventh Day


Dhidi Chuki and Kiasiasa Utambulisho


For Kwanzaa’s final day of celebration and reflection, we have Imani. Since I’ve reflected on it previously, I will focus on the two final principles for KuchuQwanzaa: “Against Hate” and “Politicized Identity.”


I walk into a room and I am assumed I’m “political” for just existing. So I might as well own that. Yup, I exist and I’m proud. AND WE’RE GONNA TALK ABOUT MY POLITICS ALL DAY, BABY. And hurt the feelings of Nazis and well-meaning allies in the process. Hate comes in all sorts of forms. Some are REALLY OBVIOUS, while others are more insidious and subtle. The ally that tells me to not be one of “those f-slurs?” They get binned. And the other one who shushes me when I say I’m Black and I’m Proud? Binned and set on fire.


I may not have much choice in how I’m politicalized, but I’ll be damned if someone thinks I’m “doing it wrong” and treat my existence as an inconvenience.



And that is all for my reflections for last year’s Kwanzaa and KuchuQwanzaa. I’d like to do the same for this year, and reflect again to see where I stand.


Til then!

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Here’s what I did:


  • went to work
  • ate at restaurants (rarely, certainly more than I used to)
  • hung out with friends (small gathering at home, or a slightly larger gathering in an outdoor setting)
  • wore a mask when going indoors anywhere (except at work; I don’t have close contact with coworkers)
  • adhered to others’ request to test before hanging out, tested before major events
  • tested regularly (and for suspected symptoms or potential exposure)
  • And I now realize how I tend to begin, or at least liberally use, lists.


I went to work Monday, as usual, and as the day winded down I noticed I was pretty tired– but I chalked it up to a certain weekend where there was debauchery that I was still recovering from. "If I don’t feel better after a full night’s sleep, I will take a test," I reasoned with myself. And you know how this played out the following morning.


I can’t tell you where I could have gotten it. But I can tell you how I felt.


Guilty


The instant my test beeped "POSITIVE" I shut myself in my room.


I let everyone know as soon as I knew, fancy PDF and all. I may not have been as responsible as I could have been– did I forget to wear a mask that one time?– but I made sure to do what I needed to do, once I knew I had Covid.


And I felt guilty.


I thought back to that one sneeze, before laying down for a from a Sunday nap with my lovers. Should I have known, then? I worried if they would soon come down with it, too. I traced back all my steps the previous days of ducking in for errands, to every elder person I had a conversation with. I mentally recalled how much time I spent training a coworker in my office– and how close we were, for a change. Did I forget to wear a mask, somewhere? Was a place a little two crowded?


Obviously, someone got me sick. Maybe they didn’t know, or didn’t care. But I was fine with that. I took that risk going outside, right? Every time I stepped out my front door was a roll of the dice.


But I could have gotten someone sick.


Thankfully (from what I can gather) it stopped at my bedroom door. But someone could have died.


Yes, still.


Frustrated


One is the acknowledgment that Covid-19 is here to stay. We are probably going to be living with this virus for our lifetimes and our childrenā€™s lifetimes and beyond. Given thatā€™s the case, the emphasis has to be to resume normalcy, which means cutting out policies that are disruptive to everyday life.

The end of quarantine? What people should know about the CDC’s new Covid-19 guidelines


I’ll express this again: getting sick and missing out on a paycheck was more of a disruption to my everyday life. And once again, I’m retracing my steps, but through years instead of days. If only we cared about one another more, and not the economy. If only the CDC had a backbone. If only we had a safety net in place for those that grew sick.


The pandemic revealed some glaring flaws in our systems, and unfortunately I don’t see any fixes to them anytime soon.


I am fortunate to have a support system in place, but others aren’t so lucky.


Lonely


Communication was through The Blessed Internet or my closed door. People were notified; Doordash reinstalled. And I settled in for the impending isolation. "I’ll be kinda okay," I thought, "I can pretend I’m back in 2008 where the only thing I worried about was online classes and Maple Story. Only better, because there’s better games and better phones! And a Nintendo Switch!"


But I still woke up to Day 3 really feeling it. My body aches were gone, but (pause for dramatic effect) there was an ache in my heart because my phone wasn’t blowing up like my AIM Messenger program on my Windows ME computer in 2003 on a Thursday night.


But seriously.


Work takes up a lot of our time. For me it’s 40 hours of it, per week. You remove that from your schedule and the hours of nine-to-five are pretty quiet, because everyone else is busy working. Also, like, people have stuff to do.


Me in Discord joining and leaving an empty voice channel.
When you’re 30 minutes in chat and you realize…
And what was worse, I didn’t get anything accomplished! Once again, COVID has robbed me of my productivity. Instead of baking bread at home with my dog, I was too busy being an Essential Worker. Instead of writing my gay magnum opus, I was too busy recuperating and being sad at my lack of cuddles.




Being touch-starved is a terrible thing, and since I’m a terrible person I would wish it on my worst enemy. When you have COVID, you obviously can’t glomp your nesting partners. Or snuggle after a long day. Or curl up together in bed. Or bite them for no apparent reason.


I refuse to feel guilty for resting when I need to, and I’m used to low interaction online. But the lack of physical touch from another human being was easily the worst part of quarantine for me.


I felt like life moved on around me, and I was in an impenetrable stasis where I was not perceived.


I had no form.


Sometimes, you could hear me. Maybe.

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Do you ever think about
The books you left behind?
Every time you moved– and then–


The very first move was an adventure to something greater. Our first real house, with a garage and and attic and my own room. The move after that, a grander adventure away from home.


When I was younger, I had the privilege and the ability to bring with me all I had: every game, every glass bottle, every book. Perhaps I didn’t have too much, or it was easier to let some things go, or I just didn’t notice and when I did, it was inconsequential. The second move found me still young but old enough to choose what to leave behind –a book here, some bottles there… Later in life, there were moves necessitating the need for me to sell some things: gas money for the drive, monetary compensation for what I couldn’t bring with me.


I have moved a total of 8 times, if I am counting correctly. But the one move I think of often is bittersweet, but I did something a little different.


I volunteered at a library for something to do. I was shaken out of a job and aimless. We cataloged books in Excel, recycled others, and dusted the shelves for a few hours each day. Not many people came in. Bored high schoolers, mostly. Locals would come and donate more books and peruse the shelves, occasionally having their names written down in a notebook as they checked out things.


I eventually received an eviction notice; I couldn’t be aimless forever. So I was going back home, again. I had to downsize, again. But not to a pawn shop or bookstore or a GameStop.


While packing I took stock of everything: the furniture, knicknacks, flowers, books… more books. One pile held the ones I wanted to keep, and another of books I wouldn’t mind losing. And this time, there was a new stack: some I couldn’t bear to part with, but I did nonetheless. The last two stacks were to be donated to the library.


I touched each book, recalling fond memories of my discovery. How epic the 3-in-1 paperback felt, and how it left me thoughtful long after I finished. Another I read in high school and the excitement I had when its sequel released. A small book of poems that carried me through college.


They were dear to me, but I found them in a library once. If I left them there, if someone needed them they will be there.


I left books on the library selves.


–Once, it pained you
But you grew used to letting go, so
You gave them up for someone else to read.

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It has been a rough two years, and for me the world didn’t even shut down.


It moved on, and me with it.


While others were able to stay home and bake bread, or walk their dogs, or just slow down to enjoy time with their families– I was (am) an essential worker. Not quite as essential as retail, restaurant, or banks. But since my company provided product for those industries, I was essential enough.


For a time, my hours were cut. Others were laid off, and in retrospect I was not so lucky.


Eventually regular hours resumed– then increased– but with a pay cut. So we had to work more for less, and the work never slowed down. 10-hour days. Weekends. Overwhelming. Everyone exhausted.


And when the pandemic was declared “over” in all but name, not much changed, except the meetings resumed. Good news for them: profits were down but manageable, because cuts. Next meeting, better news: more clients, and our original pay was restored. And then, several meetings later, the dreaded two words:


“record profits”


as they wheeled in little freezers to fill with ice cream for employee appreciation, and said again when we were given $20 gift cards and candy and an extra holiday off. They were quick to mouth more appreciation during more meetings where we ate popsicles for two hours, trying our hardest not to fall asleep to their PowerPoint presentations.


For a lot of people, the writing was on the wall and it echoed the circulating articles. As the work didn’t slow but cost of living rose, the discontentment only grew. Burnout was high, and so was the toxicity. People began to leave.


I left, and from what I hear people are still leaving.


I hate to admit why I stayed as long as I did. I’m a creature of habit, and nearing 5 years of employment in that place, I did feel a little special. Wanted, even. Everyone came to me to solve issues with a system I knew like the back of my hand– and if something stumped me, I knew how to find the answer. I knew all the little things that other people stumbled over. I could find any box size, and almost any obscure item. I knew how to fix the temperamental computers with a few clicks. It was comfortable. And in tough times there is nothing more comforting than routine.


But comforting routine isn’t enough.


Not when a the grocery bill of a household of 3 humans (and 2 cats!) ballooned to $200 a week. Not when I over-utilized my credit cards because I simply didn’t make enough per hour. Not when the gas money budget doubled overnight due to oil corporate greed. Not when we want to remain in our expensive rental house, which is now considered a bargain under the current market. Not when I dreaded going into work to the point where I swore I made myself sick. Not when the work never ended, my help ultimately thankless, and my peace disturbed by the toxic gossip and despair bringing everyone down.


2.5% simply was not enough. But that was all they could give, because of their “budget.”


That realization was the final push I needed to be brave.


I type this up now, with a new job and calmer mindset.

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My grandmother was dying when I penned this post.

There is a lot of what my mother bitterly calls it, drama, concerning the surrounding circumstances. But most of it is not important; what matters at this moment is how she does not want any of this drama when the time comes for her to require elderly care, and when she passes away.

"Please, put me in a home." I know. Unlike her sister, I will do the responsible thing and recognize that I can be no caregiver. "And I do not want a viewing." Give me flowers while I am living. We agree on that. She does not want the "song and dance" of the whole funeral thing and knowing her family, "song and dance" would be the understatement of the decade. She doesn’t even want a gravestone. "Cremate me. Or donate my body to science. I’m already an organ donor." She even suggests, if she ever succumbed to dementia like her mother, to pump her full of LSD and, hm, let her go. "If I’m going out, I want to have a good time."

Jokes aside, no one likes to think about their mother dying.

So the topic turned to other things– in hindsight– a segue. Mom had recently visited the attic to retrieve the vinyl collection. As an avid user of Spotify and iTunes, she no longer felt the need to keep them around and was going to donate them. And the packrat that I am (my VHS collection can attest to this), I snatched them up.

We went through the entire stack. Some I’ve never seen before (growing up, I was more interested in the growing technology that was the Compact Disc; the vinyls were safe from my pillaging), but some I recognized as the art the covered the living room wall. From Talking Heads to Prince, Michael Jackson and ZZ Top and AC/DC and… albums about… drag racing? That one took me by surprise.

Some are certainly damaged. Others scratched. Others still, missing covers in the dusty stack. Covers missing records.

While I did joke about selling The Beatles’ White Album, I knew they weren’t going anywhere. Especially with mom’s words in my ears, about leaving nostalgic tokens of love behind.

There was a story for most of them: going to the record store after watching The Wall, her singing a few bars of Lovin’ You, some albums she had while growing up, and some I remember fondly as cool stuff on the walls.

These stacks of albums tell a story of what my parents experienced and loved. It is another thing I can hold, memories of weight I can feel and thumb through.

When the time comes I will let her go, but I’ll hang onto Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk album for a while longer.