When I woke up this morning, I did not want to get out of bed.

But I did it anyway.

Arienette didn’t want to get up either. Nor did she want to get dressed, or otherwise get ready for school.

She did it anyway. (With some help)

I brought the laundry and started it at my mothers house, dropped Ari off at kindergarten, and went across the street to the courthouse to get a copy of my divorce decree, so that my divorce can be finalized in Turkey. I told the woman that I needed the signature notarized so that I could have it apostillized to go overseas. She refused. She said the certification was the only notary they do. I argued with her, but eventually just took it and left knowing what would happen at the state house later. I should have known better than to wear red into a courthouse.

I drove the 20 minutes to my OBGYN for my colposcopy. Walking in, I spoke with the receptionist I have seen there every time I have been there for almost 18 years now. It was good to see a familiar, friendly face. I went upstairs, an waited for my Dr. to be ready for me. The nurse took me in, and we chatted a bit… she was nice, but my nerves were overkill already. The Dr came in, and I launched into a stream of questions. What will this procedure entail? What happens if you find something? What does that procedure entail? Etc. He happily answered all of my questions, even drawing diagrams, and then it was time. He found one spot to remove for testing, then, took a sample from inside my cervix just to be sure. He said results will come back in 1-2weeks, not 4-8 (I wish I could remember who said that so I could slap them), and that, if it comes back precancerous, I will need a leep procedure, which is more invasive and means I can’t drive for 24 hours. All in all, it wasn’t as bad as I expected, I didn’t even feel most of it.

Then, I drove to the state house, and went to the office of the Secretary of State. I explained what was going on, and that I had done this a few times before, as well as what the court clerk told me. They told me that I was correct, and called the court to tell them what needed to be done even though I already told them. Then, they sent me to a second court house.

While I was on my way to the second court house, my eye Dr called to let me know my glasses were ready. The eye Dr was closer, so I went there first. Found out the glasses I have been wearing are 1.5 times stronger than what I need, even though I like those frames better than my new ones.

So, finally finding the district court, I managed to find the right person to get my document notarized, and brought it back to the state house to get the apostille. Just as I was leaving my parking spot, I got a text from someone I care about that completely shattered me, and then was on my way home. Stopped at the store for mom, switched over laundry, picked Arienette up, and now I just want to crash, but I am at karate for my teenager for the next 3 and a half hours.

I am dead on my feet.


Dirty Pretty

Warning: The following may (read: will almost definitely) be a bit rambly.


You don’t know how hard it is, being a woman. How will I ever live up to your expectations of pretty?

I have been devouring In This Moment lately. Particularly the Black Widow album. It is gold. Everything I need right at this moment in my life, and that is essential. It is important to have the proper soundtrack for your life… or… for where you want your life to be.

I also have noticed, over my 32 years on earth, that when men (or anyone really) want to get a point across to a woman, they tend to go for their pretty.

I promise these points are related.

You’re so pretty, we should hang out sometime

I didn’t want to date you anyway, you fat, ugly slob!

You should feel lucky that someone like me would pay attention to an ugly bitch like you

You’d be pretty if you lost weight

you’re pretty, I bet he’ll give you that promotion

she only got that promotion because she’s hot

He’s with her now?? She’s so much uglier than you!

Why is it that the first line of attack is always against our “pretty”? Not pretty enough, thin enough, thick enough, tall enough, short enough, tan enough, pale enough… no matter who we are or what we look like, any time we, as women, do something that creates even the smallest wave, we can be sure the first words to be said will be about our appearance. Followed directly by how slutty we are (even if we are celibate).

Why is this the go to?

Are we, as women, so vain that this is really the hardest hitting weaponry that (mostly) men have in their arsenal? Do they attack our pretty because that is the surest way to destroy us?

Or could it be that they are so intent on making us that vain? That they want us ladies to be so insipid that we are torn down so easily by a simple comment on our looks?

They decry our vanity by making jokes about how long we take to get ready and how much makeup we use, while at the same time trying to butter us up by lavishing us with compliments on our pretty – but only as long as we do as they want, or they will turn around and tear down those very looks they were just a moment ago writing sonnets to.

We do it to each other as much as men do it to us, calling each other pretty to their faces, and tearing them apart behind their backs, or even tearing each other down face to face as if it is survival of the prettiest? Pettiest?

As for me, I’d be far more hurt by someone attacking my character… or, you know, something I consider legitimately important.

*I won’t close my eyes, like you want me to
I am wild and free, I am untamable…
I’m more than you’ll ever see
More than just your dirty pretty*


Old Lady

they called her “old lady”
if only they knew…
that little old lady
who lived in the shoe

by chance met a stranger
one dark autumn night
and was transformed forever
by one little bite

the children she kept
made her youthful and strong
and give her much comfort
through centuries long

the Ancient One watches,
and patiently waits
come, enter her woods
her hunger you’ll sate

On Charlotesville

It has been several days, and as such, I am behind the outpouring of words that customarily follow such an event. Words of sadness, confusion, love, help, good intent… mostly words of good intent, but also words of anger, hate, vitriol, and even people who deny that this was what even the perpetrators of the incident say it was. In this case, an act of white supremacists, making sure the rest of us know that they are still very much alive, and willing to fight for what they think they deserve.

“Jews will not replace us”

Jewish people have neither the intention, nor desire to replace anyone. There is no “gay agenda”, African Americans are not trying to undermine white people in any way. They are simply standing here saying “Please, can you make some room for us, too?” And when you stand, and shout back at them that you want them to die, or that you won’t let them “replace you” or “win”, maybe you are the problem here.

“Blood and soil

Using an old Nazi chant drives in only one point. That the people shouting it are Nazis. Unless, of course, they happen to be shouting it on soil that they stole from people, while covering it with the blood of those native peoples. Then, a second point is made. The people shouting are either extraordinarily forgetful, or just really stupid. This soil does not belong to us. If it belongs to anyone, it is the Native Americans who were cheated out of their land, pushed into corners and largely forgotten about… and then… replaced. In fact, throughout history, it is the white man who has done most of the replacing.

White people will never be replaced, and they know that. Everyone with any semblance of a brain knows that. That isn’t really what they fear. These people fear having to share, and being made to share equally. They fear having to treat everyone as though they are equal. Being forced to acknowledge that they are superior to nobody.

The fact is, if Charlottesville had been Native Americans or African Americans protesting, even if it were a peaceful protest, they would not have made it out safely. They would have been arrested. Bombarded with teargas and rubber bullets. America is not, and will not be free and equal until this is no longer the case. Until white protesters are given the same treatment as protesters of any other color, creed, religion, etc, we have no equality.

Until we have someone in the White House who can see why Charlottesville was, indeed, an incitement of terror from white supremacists, and not simply “bad on both sides”, we can not come together, and if Pence wants to stand with Trump on his statements on the issue, then let him fall with Trump as well.

We, as a country, need to move forward. We need to move into equality for all. Nothing less can be acceptable.


Sometimes you make me want to laugh

And sometimes, you make me want to cry

And sometimes, you make me happy I’m alive

But sometimes, I just want to die

Because I can’t have you

No I can’t have you

And you’re all I want

And sometimes, I wonder if there’s a chance

That someday, perhaps you’ll change your mind

And somehow, you’ll find yourself wanting me

But would you even tell me

If you wanted me?



Dear Clothing Companies

Most of the time, if I am shopping for clothes, it is for my daughters. Arienette is the easiest, she is five. I go to the boys’ section if she needs sweat pants, because they are thicker than the ones the girls have, (yes, really) then, I just raid the girls’ section for whatever else she needs. She loves clothes, so, as long as it’s cute, she doesn’t care what I get her.

Krishna, at 16, is a little more picky. Luckily, we generally have the same taste in clothing,(though sometimes I still find myself thinking WTF??) so, anything I think is cute will generally make her happy, plus anything that has super heroes (or villains), or The Doctor on it will make her squeal with delight. Basically, at her age, as long as she is covered, I am happy.

The problem arises if ever I should deign to attempt to find clothing for myself. Regardless of what store I am shopping at, I walk in already knowing that I am unlikely to find anything I like that is also in my size, and, bu the time I walk out, 98% of the time, I have bought no clothing.

You see, I am a fat girl. (GASP!) For some reason, clothing companies see this, and assume that it means that I do not wish to be seen, so they throw shapeless tops in dark colors and floral patterns with barely any neckline and no flare or imagination at all at me thinking, somehow, that I will be thrilled at the options, when really, they are not giving me options.

This upsets me more than I can tell you. Follow me around the clothing section in any store, and you will invariably hear me muttering obscenities along with things like “do they think that they can just make fat girls disappear by hiding us under circus tents?”, or “Of course, I’m a fat girl, why on earth would I possibly want to look cute?” The thing is, I do want to look cute. I love the clothing I see in other sections. I really wish that someone would make those clothes in my size.

I prefer to wear form fitting clothing. It is more comfortable to me, and frankly, I may be a bigger girl, but I have some kick ass curves, and you can’t see them if I am swimming in one of the shapeless t shirt things that dominates my size range at any given store. I like my clothing to reflect my personality, to show off my goofy, nerdy side, or maybe that day I want to just look pretty. When my choices do not have personality, this is made even more difficult. I just don’t understand why manufacturers don’t see the market for cute, plus size clothing.

I went shopping the other day, and I bought four pieces of clothing. Four. Three tops and a skirt. One of the tops may get returned, because I am iffy about the pattern. I consider this to be a good shopping day. My best, actually, in over a year. I had to look through all of the clothes in the entire women’s’ section twice before I found anything. i had to dig through the racks to see if they had anything that would fit me that wasn’t boring or hideous. This should not be the case.

I am going to end this by saying one simple thing that I think everyone can understand: unless you want a bunch of fat girls running around naked, you need to clothe us. Most of us prefer to look cute. It makes us happier. You don’t want a bunch of pissed off, naked fat girls looking for you, do you? Or, maybe that’s your thing, I won’t judge.