Happy Holidays: on ham, Freshman Comp papers, the Blackwater Massacre, sad Christmas music . . .
I slept until ten today. I rarely do that as an adult, unless I’ve had too much to drink (I had NONE to drink last night — not really my jam, these days). I think I was just resting, just dreaming, just snuggling in with Abe.
I’m trying not to stress over the weight I’ve gained since moving to the Tucson Spaceship; I’ll worry about this in greater earnest after the holidays. (Greatest story ever told, right?)
We had “vegan junk food” from a nearby restaurant last night (delivery).
It was surprisingly good, but you could definitely tell you were eating the vegan version of “junk food.”
The burger tasted vaguely of sauerkraut . . . fortunately, I like sauerkraut.
I can’t really claim the “vegan” mantle these days. I’ve been eating some meat, and definitely some dairy and frankly, I have no identity attachment to “veganism” so I’m cool with this lapse. The only reason I’m EVER vegan (and will be again post-holidays) is for my stupid bullshit body which basically turns into a cancer production factory if I so much as look at a beer or a piece of cheese . . .
Today is Christmas Eve, and I’m dressed in my holiday finest: a Parliament (the band, not the governing body) t-shirt, jeans, and a red hoodie. I’ve showered. I’ve styled my hair (as much as hair like mine needs “styling”). I’ve tried my level best to pretend that today is special — by actually getting dressed in clothes that are not way too big and/or pajamas. I even put on a bra. Granted it’s a sports bra (don’t think I’ve worn a bra since I was in my thirties and lost a portion of my left breast — that sort of experience diminishes one’s interest in any bra that causes the slightest discomfort; and let’s be honest: I’ve never been one for fancy underwear or fancy anything — I like my clothes to be comfy and utilitarian).
Clothes. I suffered my time in dresses and heels. (Truth: I really liked my taffeta skirt and patent leather shoes, but grew out of those by ten.) As a girl-child, and young adult, during a time when gender expression was a bit less “flexible,” I did all the girl-child things expected of a girl-child/young woman in the 80s, 90s, and early aughts. Makeup, the whole lot.
It’s not even a rejection of stereotypical femininity (which it kind of is), but just a good old fashioned “fuck it.” I know damn well that I’m a woman — my body has never let me forget, especially this year — but miss me with all that uncomfortable so-called “female” clothing. Maybe in 2021 everyone can just fucking wear what they like and we can stop pathologizing that? Maybe in 2021 business can get over this BUisiNesS CaSuaL thing — what the fuck is that? Even my fucking oncologist is sometimes in skinny jeans: doesn’t mean I take him any less seriously when he tells me all about my cancer.
I mean, if you enjoy high heels, makeup, and neckties-every-damn-day — good on you. I sometimes appreciate those things, too, on other people.
All this to say: the last time I made an attempt to get dressed was the parking lot graduation event we held for our sucker punched seniors last year.
Tucson is slightly overcast today. A bit chilly. Feels fitting. Helps me give a shit about the holiday a little more, I guess.
Now I’m having my last cup of coffee in my STUDIO. Gearing up to make some Strawberry Pretzel Salad (a dessert of my people) that I’ll bring to my in-laws’ where we’re going for dinner (just the four of us). After dinner, we’ll sit in the hottub in their yard, which overlooks the Catalina Foothills and all the lights of downtown Tucson. Tomorrow, my in-laws will come to our house. We don’t have a hot tub. I will make a ham and a chicken breast — since pretty much everyone, but me hates ham.**
**If any Tucson dwelling meat eater friends/former students want post-xmas ham, hit me up. I’ll gladly make you a baggie. There’s NO WAY I will be eating an entire ham myself: I’m not THAT depressed yet. Frankly, I don’t think I’ve ever been THAT depressed . . .
So last night, as part of getting in the “holiday spirit,” I drank a mug of cocoa I bought at my new local dispensary. I failed to note that it was 60 mgs (not 30, as I had presumed) of THC. For the first time, since getting my AZ Med MJ card, I had an experience that flirted with super-paranoid-disaster-psychological-mess. I swear, if that cocoa had been 10 mgs more potent, Sarah would have had to talk me down off the walls OR I would have ended up THAT person in the ER during a fucking pandemic because I “ate too much weed.” I texted my friend Megan that I was “Snoop Dog stoned,” because I was. No hate (far from it) on Snoop Dog, but I don’t find pleasure in being THAT high.
I mean, I kept forgetting where the dog was and freaking out because I couldn’t see him and Sarah would be like “Honey, he’s right here. Where he was five minutes ago.” Like, that’s not fun to me. I’m more into the “dancing in the kitchen/laughing about stupid shit/reduced pain” effects of cannabis. When I’m super sick, I like that cannabis makes me hungry. I do NOT appreciate being couch locked and all “Whaaaat?” Like, I basically feel that way every morning NATURALLY.
I don’t need to buy shit to make me feel groggy/confused/sleepy/slightly afraid.
One thing I’ve learned this year/am still learning: how to properly eat cannabis (my doctors have asked me to refrain from smoking it, if I must indulge, and I must). Because I am a massive geek, I had to give myself a whole education in cannabis before I made my first purchase this year. I know strains now. I know what brands are good and which are garbage. I feel a little proud of this. It’s been a hobby during this awful fucking year — like people who collect wine.
I feel like I write a lot about weed. I suppose I do.
When I was teaching Freshman Comp (which I did for many, many years) my college students ALWAYS wanted to write their final research papers arguing FOR marijuana legalization, and while I was never opposed to legalizing mj (I, like many others, have known FOREVER that it’s basically harmless), I never let them write these papers because all they would be was a litany of medical benefits instead of a cohesive, concise argument. Also, the papers never acknowledged the heart of the matter: most people enjoy getting a little lifted, and cannabis is a relatively safe way to do that.
Now I feel like I’m writing that verboten paper damn near every day on Medium. Even on the Eve of Baby Jesus’ birthday . . .
Before I leave to make a Midwestern “salad” (i.e. NOT a salad), can I bring up the Blackwater Massacre? The only reason I’m bringing such a terrible incident up is that, as you probably noticed, fucking Trump pardoned all those motherfuckers and it really messed me up in the head.
Did it mess you up, too?
I mean, I know Trump is evil and sick, but HOW? HOW can you be that fucked in the heart and soul? I won’t say too much about this — there is so much to say, and all of it is so fucking sad.
I really should be taking my thoughts about the Blackwater Massacre and subsequent unjust pardons into the yard, but I’m cozy in my STUDIO right now.
We’re blessed, Sarah and I. For all my bitching and moaning, we are blessed.
I feel okay today — physically fine, mentally just “okay.”
We have an adorable new place to live.
I am still alive, one year out. (Though I wasn’t dx’d until mid/late January, I found the cancer in November.)
We can pay for my expensive cancer drugs because we have health insurance.
I still have a job that I love, even though it sometimes makes me sad because I miss the fucking kids so much.
I have Sarah here on The Spaceship with me. I am not totally alone.
My family and friends are, mostly, healthy and okay. Even if I can’t see them, it helps to know they’re mostly okay.
That said, when CNN advertised their NYE programming the other day and said “2020 has also been a year of hope” I reflexively did this:
There’s that super sad fucking Judy Garland song from Meet Me in St. Louis. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” — until I heard an NPR story about it, a few years ago, I never paused to realize how fucking DEPRESSING it is. Like people WERE messed up here, at home, in the US during WWII — maybe Americans didn’t have it as bad as the European nations (and we really, really didn’t), but things were fucking hard and that song’s gist is:
“This year fucking sucks. Try, anyway. Try to make the most of this shitty, vomit soaked, old dishrag of a year.”
So I’m off to try.
