Paper

This post marks the completion of a full year of Thursday blogs. Sometimes it feels like it, sometimes it feels like it can’t possibly be that long already, but the calendar proves that it has, in fact, been a year since I started yapping at you once a week.

The most surprising thing to me, I think, is the fact that you’ve stuck around. I mean, I’m sure you’ve all missed a week or two here and there because life happens, but for the most part, fifty-one-and-a-half of you (on average) have shown up every week without fail. That’s not nothing--for me or for you--so thank you for coming along on the runaway train that is my thought process. I hope you’re getting something out of it. (I mean, I assume you must be, since you keep coming back.) (And I’m not even mad if what you’re getting is schadenfreude.)

The other thing I am still finding to be very strange indeed is the fact that fifty-one-and-a-half-of-you-on-average show up every week, but in the last year I have had three whole comments in the blog itself. I was actually playing a game starting somewhere around the fourth week to see how long it would go before anyone said anything. (It was seven months, BTW.) It started to be wildly amusing, actually. “I hope no one says anything this week! I don’t want to break my record streak of silence!” Plenty of you have contacted me on other platforms--replied to the social media shares etc.--and it wasn’t as if I was expecting an avalanche of commentary, but holy wow, y’all. You’re a very quiet bunch. Serious talk for a minute, folks; it’s okay to say things if you want. You can ask questions. You can make suggestions and requests, even, and if I think I can accommodate whatever it is I’ll give it a go. I promise I’m not too scary. I’m just a little scary. And I don’t bite. Well, I might nibble. A bit. Wait, why are you running away? Don’t leave, I promise I’ll get back to the original subject!

Ahem. ::adjusts glasses::

I mentioned it here, but I know that the reason I have been successful in pushing through for a whole year is because I set myself a deadline. I made myself accountable. It’s all very well and good to say, “I’mma write a thing!” but in my experience, most people don’t succeed with that vague an endgame. If that had been the only thing to keep me going, I’d have posted randomly until I got bored and then gone away and done something else. With ‘give yourself a deadline’ in my back pocket, though, I had a very simple goal: Get something up for people to read every Thursday at six. It doesn’t matter what it is, it just has to be there. I tried to adhere to the industry standard of the 800 word opinion column, and for the most part I managed that, too, but that was a secondary goal, really.

I’ve taken a look back at the last 52 posts, and there were some I had forgotten about completely. Some weeks it’s like I get the topic out of my system and it also packs up and leaves my brain...forever. That’s a strange sensation. It’s like rediscovering some lost part of myself. I wrote it, there is evidence to support that, but until I was reminded of it, it had ceased to exist in my brainbox. Some of my posts feel like I wrote them last week.

“Didn’t I just do that one?”

::checks date on post::

::checks calendar on wall::

“Well, if you count April as ‘just’...”

Over the last year, some of my posts have been better than others. Some have been serious, some sad, some angry, some confused, some the very textbook definition of whack-a-doodle. Some of the ones I was most proud of turned out to be the least read. Some of the ones I thought of as ‘throwaways’ proved to be immensely popular. (What I conclude from the last two observations is that y’all are weird. It’s okay. I still love you.)

In the grand scheme of things, a year is the blink of an eye--a drop in a bucket. It’s nothing. But if you stop for a second and really look at all the things that happen in any given 365-day period, it’s so much more than you remember when you cast back a sweeping glance as you cobble together your annual family Christmas card. Christmas card! Oh good, a segue. I was at a loss for one, but now:

Speaking of Christmas cards, they are traditionally printed on paper.

Paper is the traditional gift for a first anniversary.

This is the first anniversary of a blog, which, before the advent of the internet, would have been written on paper.

One year! Paper anniversary!

Here, have a .gif of Yzma clearly not enjoying some confetti (which is made of paper).



And hey, while you’re here, maybe take a gander at this group I write for. Shoot The Breeze Comics (rebrand to On Comics Ground coming early 2019) is a completely volunteer-run organization on a mission to showcase the best in comics with an emphasis on indie creators, creators of color, LGBTQA+ creators, and stories and characters enabling all readers to find comics reflecting their identities and experiences.

The current website is:
www.shootthebreezecomics.com
I am currently reviewing three titles: Image Comics’ Errand Boys, Action Labs Comics’ Albert Einstein: Time Mason, and AfterShock Comics’ Dead Kings, but there are lots of comics to choose from and new reviews, news items, and articles go up all the time!

Patreon:
https://www.patreon.com/shootthebreezeC

There is also a Go Fund Me campaign running to help with the cost of rebranding:https://www.gofundme.com/stb-media-presents-on-comics-ground

Here We Go A-Holidaying

You’ll be reading this on the Thanksgiving holiday in the US.

For most of us, this means that the holiday season is in full swing and we are up against a constant barrage of parties and food and who knows what else. The office party, family get-togethers, your kids’ (if you have them or know them) school holiday activities, church stuff if you’re into that, Secret Santa gift exchanges with just about any group you’re in...it’s a lot to cram into a two-month period.

If I were one to subscribe wholeheartedly to convention I would make this post about being grateful for what we have, giving to those less fortunate, and rejoicing in the holiday chaos because...I don’t know...memories or something, but if you haven’t guessed it yet, I ain’t-a gonna do that.

I’m just going to come out and say it: The holidays are stressful.

Not everyone has a Hallmark holiday where their family behaves as if they were vomited forth from a Lifetime movie. Some people spend their holidays alone because they have no one to spend them with. Some people have suffered the loss of a friend or family member at this time of the year in the past and the season brings up unpleasant memories for them which prevents them from enjoying things as much as they might otherwise. Some people are unable to celebrate the way they would like due to financial restrictions or a family member away serving their country or a prohibitive work schedule. Some people have difficult family situations, but because of expectation and obligation they go along with things to keep everyone happy.

I’m in that last category. I could fill you in with a whole heap of family history, but the abridged version is that everyone hates my dad, and while to an extent they have a point, he’s still my dad, ya know? So I’ve been in the middle for years now to a greater or lesser degree, and while everyone swears up and down that it’s not a ‘guilt by association’ situation, it still feels weird, and I end up wearing myself out having to be ‘on’ during any family gathering. And I have to carry around the kernel of knowledge that my parents have been purposefully excluded, which honestly makes me feel ill. I’d rather not be involved at all if it would save me this endless push-and-pull feeling, but you know how family can be—you can say “No, thank you,” all you want and it doesn’t seem to make a smidgen of difference. Somehow I always end up going. At least this year it’s just a family pre-Christmas gathering and I get a reprieve from the family drama for Thanksgiving with just one aunt and uncle and a whole slew of their friends, but it’s still an entire day of being ‘on’ and I know I’m going to need to spend the rest of the (long!) weekend recovering from it.

So now I find myself (and my complete inability to just throw my hands up and say “Fuck it!”) needing to find ways to retain at least a modicum of what is left of my ever-shrinking sanity. I’ve already seen the ‘listicles’ circulating the Internet—’Five Ways to Beat the Holiday Blues’, ‘Three Little Things You Can Do to Have a Less Anxious Holiday Season’, ‘Seven Thousand Eight Hundred Fifty-Two Self Care Tips from Pinterest Enthusiasts’—but we all know there’s no one-size-fits-all when it comes to looking after yourself. Personally, I plan to do the following:

• Read whatever strikes my fancy. It’s a fantastic escapist tactic I’ve been using since I was six.
• Color. I have an enormous pile of adult coloring books and an equally enormous pile of things with which to color them.
• Reorganize something. (I know, I’m weird, but I like all of that sorting and throwing things out business and my desk is just begging for it right now.)
• Take naps.
• Snuggle my furbabies—at least, as much as they’ll let me. They’re busybusybusy little critters!
• Have long baths, though with the air quality here in California being what it is at the moment I’m probably going to have to skip the candles, darnit…
• Watch any of my ‘comfort shows’ as a marathon.

And, if all else fails:

• Drink heavily. (Though to be entirely honest, the drinking will probably accompany all of the above activities.)

Basically, I’m going to do everything in my power to keep myself afloat through the end of the year. I hope that if you’re in for a whirlwind of a yuletide season—or whatever your celebration of choice—that you either are looking forward to it wholeheartedly, or that you will take a leaf out of my book and do the best you can to be kind to yourself.

How to Make a Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich: A Lesson in Algorithms for Eight Year Olds

When I was in elementary school (a million years ago with the dinosaurs) our district had one dedicated, all-day, immersive class for academically gifted children in grades 3-6. You had to test to get in, and if you did, you spent four years with the same kids going through a designated set of teachers. At the time, it felt like a Big Deal to be included in this program, and I was informed later that my personal inclusion was a slightly bigger deal than I thought. Lemme ‘splain.

Mrs. Krahenbuhl was the third grade G.A.T.E. (Gifted and Talented Education) teacher. Since the program was based at my elementary school, she had been aware of my existence from the time I started kindergarten. Now, according to my mother, I aced every part of the G.A.T.E. test with the exception of the mathematics section--no surprise there, it had always been my stumbling block. I gather I missed the mark on that section by a fairly slim margin, but the district rule was “90% or higher, period.” While I can’t vouch for the accuracy of this conversation because I got the abridged version from my mother several years down the line, it seems that when Mrs. Krahenbuhl got wind of my plight she said something akin to, “I want that child in my class,” and then waved her magic teacher wand and made it so.

I’m bringing this up this week because last Saturday I went to Mrs. Krahenbuhl’s memorial service.

On September 22nd of this year, Mrs. Krahenbuhl made her move to the Big Teacher’s Lounge in the Sky. She taught a total of fifty-five years, forty-five of which were in my school district, and the last seven post-retirement as a substitute teacher. There were kids in my class whose parents had had her as a teacher. She was the reason our school district had a G.A.T.E. program to begin with, and she was a proponent for other specialized education programs throughout the district.

The woman was an institution. (Though I expect she’d balk at the label.)

The service itself was exactly what you’d expect--memories shared by family and friends, a bit of praying, a few hymns. Since the word about the service went out nearly a month in advance, I had reached out to some of my classmates about going, and when the time came there were five of us who went. (There was a smattering of representation from classes before and behind us, but we of Mrs. K’s class of ‘94-’95 were the largest sample, so we declared it a win and are still awaiting our prize, but never mind.) We stayed long enough at the reception to say hello to several former teachers and take a few photos, and then four of us (the fifth had come with her family) politely excused ourselves and retired to the Britannia Arms up the road a bit to have some food and reminisce.

We talked about the Thanksgiving Feast, making little quilts, and then had to break it to one of our group that his mental calendar was off and he was remembering stuff we did in fourth grade as stuff we did in third grade which sent his whole world topsy-turvy. We talked about science fair projects. We talked about the 1,000 paper cranes we made as a class as an acknowledgement of the victims of the Oklahoma City Bombing (April 19, 1995) and how we were on the news as a school singing ‘This Land is Your Land’ by Woody Guthrie with Mr. Hentschke, the fourth grade G.A.T.E. teacher, playing guitar, our third grade class sitting in the front row with our paper cranes all strung together.

I think the memory we were the most excited about, though, was the “How to Make a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich” lesson. It sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? “Write down the steps for making a PB&J.” Well, guess what? Those were the most deceptive instructions we were ever given as a class.

“Put the peanut butter on the bread.”

“Okay,” said Mrs. K, plunking the jar of peanut butter on top of the still-bagged bread loaf.

“No! Take the bread out first.”

“How do I do that?”

“Open the bag!”

“Like this?” Mrs. K asked, starting to tear the plastic bag.

“No! Take off the twist-tie and take the bread out the end.”

“Like this?” She dumped the whole loaf out onto the table.

“You only need a piece of bread!”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Yes! Now put the peanut butter on the piece of bread.”

She put the jar of peanut butter on the piece of bread.

“Aaaaargh! NO!”

I think you can imagine the rest. (To be completely honest, I think Mrs. K took a certain perverse pleasure in winding us all up like that, but can you really blame her?)

How many people do you know who can say they learned about algorithms in the third grade? I bet the answer is, “Very few.” It’s an advanced concept, but it was presented in a simple way, and to this day I know how important it is to be specific in your directions because otherwise you end up with smashed bread and grape jelly all over your hands.

So, Mrs. Krahenbuhl, I hope you’re making detailed PB&Js for the hosts of angels up there in the Celestial Staff Room. Your legacy lives on in the hearts and minds of hundreds of students, and I know that I, for one, can’t see a sandwich without thinking about algorithms.

Sugar, spice, everything nice, and CHEMICAL X!

Some of you may remember back in July when I lost Big Dutch, my male Hooded rat. He had health complications (as did all of his sisters who left before him) and I had to let him go. Obviously, that was a big fat bummer, and since I had such troubles with all my ratty babies I wasn’t sure if I could handle any more short lives and dramatic deaths.

And then, last week, I was lonely as fuck. (Read about it here!)

Now, I have always wanted a dog. Always as in ‘since I can remember’. I love hanging out with other people’s dogs and I’ve been called upon to dog-sit a great deal in my adult life, but a short foray into fosterhood proved conclusively that I was really and truly allergic to dander. Cue much pouting. Between a vastly reduced list of breeds due to the allergy and the fact that I’m gone for work close to ten hours a day (I commute), dog ownership is just not a possibility at the moment. I’m still bummed out about it, but it is what it is, and when I finally do get to have a dog (Greyhounds don’t have an undercoat and there’s a local rescue!) I want to be able to be home with it as much as possible. With all of this in mind, while also desperately wanting something to snuggle, the solution was obvious: It was time for another round of ratties.

So off I pottered to North Star Rescue, which is where I adopted Penny and Big Dutch, and I spent an hour or so with Jenn, the director, and some sweet little girls, one of whom I had met in July when I took what was left of Big Dutch’s kibble and cage fluff over as a donation. I had intended to adopt a pair--rats have to have a buddy--because I found it difficult when I had three to bond with all of them equally. Of course, the Universe (in the form of Jenn, the Empress of Rat Adoption Enablement) had other ideas.

Having discovered she was (astonishingly) still available, I knew I would be taking home the Double Rex girl I had met in July. Okay, so that was one decision made, now, who to take with her?

As soon as Jenn opened the cage, a little pink-eyed Marten came right over to say hi. Now, I’m not terribly keen on the whole red eye thing, it kinda creeps me out. I know it’s not fair or rational, but there it is. So I handled her for a minute and then moved on, loving on a few other little critters, but the Marten kept coming back. She really wanted to be close to me, and besides, she was giving me kisses, and if you’ve never experienced ratty kisses you are missing out because they are the best. “All right, Marten girl, you’re selling yourself really well. You get to be my second.”

“Hang on, I have a little Masked girl in there somewhere,” Jenn said.

Oh no. I suddenly got the feeling that my dream of a pair was going to be just that. And when Jenn finally found her, that little Masked girl just made me melt. She’s a runty little thing. It turns out that she was taken away from her mama too early. She’s nervous, but super sweet. And also super speedy, but I’m pretty sure that will subside once she gets used to me.

So I ended up with a trio. They’re strikingly different in coats and markings and colors, and I expect as they grow they’ll be just as different in their personalities, but for now they’re snuggly as can be and just too cute for words!

“Okay, so, three rats. Three girl rats. What do you name three girl rats?”

“Well, let’s see...I could name them after the Bronte sisters?” So I looked up the name of the third Bronte sister which I always forget and said, “Charlotte, Emily, and Anne? Mmm, no, I don’t think so. Next!”

I ended up asking Google to look up some famous female trios for me, and the first result was too perfect--and when things are too perfect, I try to find alternatives, because perfect is, well, perfect, and that’s kind of scary. I considered Kelly, Sabrina, and Jill (Charlie’s Angels,) but since I’m not a devotee of the program I scrapped that idea. It’s almost Halloween, so the thought of naming them Sarah, Mary, and Winnifred after the Sanderson Sisters in Hocus Pocus did cross my mind, but I scrapped that, too. Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe? Nah, didn’t watch Friends either. I started gender-bending other well-known threesomes, like Harriet, Veronica, and Hermione, but that got tedious really quickly. And besides, the first perfect set of names had grown on me by the time I exhausted the other possibilities, so:

Please say “Hello!” (in order) to Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup.