Author: Kiki Writes

Rumored to be a writer. Never hip. Land of Lincoln Cleavage Queen three years running.

A Bisexual Woman’s Thoughts on Cis Het Men

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Christin aka Kiki is a middle aged white woman with short, dark pink hair. She's holding up a bi pride flag in such a way that it shows off her rainbow pride ring and obscures her mouth and nose. Happy Pride. I had a bisexual thought and since I have the time, I’m going to share it with all of you. I’m not the least bit sorry.

I was thinking the other day that I feel sorry for some cis het guys. You have the best good fortune of being attracted to women, right? Women are beautiful. They come in the widest, most exquisite varieties of beauty. It’s a naturally occurring thing. They exist and they’re beautiful. I love being attracted to women. It is four leaf clover lucky to be attracted to women.

And yet…

There are some cis het men who limit themselves in their attraction. There’s an entire buffet of women out there, all of these choices, but they insist on only indulging in one specific item. And it seems that their restriction is based almost entirely on the fact that the one thing they allow themselves is approved by other men. Even if they don’t want it, even if they’d rather have something else, they still restrict themselves to that one thing.

It’s probably not in the best taste (pun possibly intended) to compare women to food, but let’s face it. Cis het men are starving themselves.

Now, this would be about the time that some people might bring up preference. People have preferences. Are cis het men not allowed to have preferences?

Yes. They are. My point is that some of them are choosing to suppress their preferences in favor of pursuing women that other men approve of, and these men have also been conditioned by the pedo beauty standards and patriarchal need to keep women small. They aren’t acting on their preferences because, my god, what will the bros think?

There’s also the fact that a preference is something that you prefer. I prefer curvy women, but I won’t turn down a woman who’s not curvy because that’s not the only attraction metric I use. Yes, finding someone physically attractive matters, but if I am attracted to other aspects of a person, then I’m guaranteed to find them physically attractive, even if they’re not my preference.

For some cis het men, that one preference is the ONLY point of attraction and they will not accept anything else, which really makes it less of a preference and more of a demand.

Now, this would be the time that some people would say that I’m just mad and/or bitter that I’m fat and ugly and men don’t like me, and again, let me point out…I’m attracted to women. Yes, I’m also attracted to men, and I have no doubt that a great many men would trip over themselves to tell me that I’m hideous. Those are not men that I want to know. Those are not men that I will twist myself into something acceptable for. I don’t have to. Not when I can simply exist and have women be attracted to me.

I realize that these are just some shallow thinky thoughts on a much deeper subject. There’s a whole lot more to this whole men-dating-for-men phenomenon and I know that other people have spoken more eloquently about it.

I’m just saying that you’re attracted to women and you won’t even let yourself enjoy them.

That’s wild.

Wanna Watch Me Juggle?

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Black silhouette of a man pushing a huge boulder up a hill against a blue background.I’m not good at juggling.

I get the mechanics of it. I can watch a juggler do their thing and I can see what they’re doing and how to do it. However, I’m lousy at it. I know that practice would help me get better, but I’m still lacking that certain something that would make me great at it and I know it.

Am I talking about literal juggling? Or am I talking about life?

Both, actually. No matter which one we’re talking about, my skills are severely lacking.

I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now, and I say that knowing full well that there are people who would trip over themselves to inform me that I don’t actually have a lot going on because they have more going on or know someone who has more going on, and also there’s a lot going on in the world, so maybe I shouldn’t be so self-centered right now. All of this accurate. But it’s my blog, and I’ll whine if I want to.

My dad, who has lung cancer among other health issues, is doing chemo again (a different kind of chemo from last year) which requires him to go for a four hour infusion three days in a row every three weeks. If they don’t let him take his hemoglobin shot at home, it’s four days in a row, that last trip lasting less than a half an hour. Then he has a follow-up appointment with his PA the next week. These are all 50+ mile round trips, usually earlier in the morning than either one of us want to be up and on the road.

Since I don’t have a grown-up job and only work part-time, I’m not missing much work by sitting in the waiting room for four hours those three days a week. I work from chemo, as it were, putting in four hours before I go in for my shift an hour late. It makes for a very long day. If your math is any good, you’ll realize that I’m actually working more on chemo days than on regular days (usually). Those extra hours go in as comp time. I have a lot of comp time.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I could possibly have that much work to do outside of the library. I mean, don’t I just shelve? Help patrons? Read all day? *insert other misconceptions about library work here*

Well, I run two local history true crime programs, one for adults and one for teens. They alternate months, but it still amounts to needing six cases for the adults and six cases for the teens. These require a lot of research as well as my own need for notes. Pages of notes. I’m in perimenopause. I can’t be trusted to remember words.

I’m also in charge of the library’s podcast. Now, I can’t record or edit in the chemo waiting room, but those episodes need scripts written and research done. That can be done at chemo.

Speaking of podcasts, in addition to the library’s podcast, I also have one and half podcasts of my own. I do Here, Watch This with my friend Shann, who does all of the heavy lifting when it comes to editing and producing. I just have to record and edit my part. And also watch the episode picked for me and write up my script for it. So, yes, it does take a little bit of work, but not nearly as much as it could.

I also have my podcast, Book ’em, Danno, which I do all of the heavy lifting on. I’ve finished the seventh season and I’m working on some prep work for the eighth.. I’ve got things pretty well down to a science, but it still takes time and work. And I’m doing this podcast work and that podcast work around the library podcast and the library work and the chemo schedule.

And the domestic schedule! I’m the only reasonably healthy adult in the establishment, so I’m in charge of all the cooking (which I was already doing most of anyway) and cleaning and yard work and most of the maintenance and also the caretaking. My dad can do many of the important and unimportant things on his own, but he still needs lookin’ after. I don’t think people understand how much problem solving is required with long-term illnesses. From figuring out pain management to keeping them comfortable to making adjustments to help them function better. It’s a lot.

So many balls in the air. I’m bound to falter from time to time. Damn certain to drop a few balls now and then. Unfortunately, it sometimes feels like the ones I drop roll under the fridge.

My arms are tired. I’m exhausted.

My only option is to put down some of these balls. Put them aside and pick them up in the pattern again later. Or give them to someone else entirely. That’s what I’ve decided to do.

I’ve hired out the lawn mowing. Well, the front yard. I’m rewilding the backyard for my local critters and pollinators, which will require much less work, but still give me the outside break that I need. Digging in the dirt and talking to some flowers is a mood booster. The rest of the yardwork I can handle on an as needed basis.

Here, Watch This has gone on indefinite hiatus (in part because Shann is juggling a lot right now, too). I’m looking at extending my usual hiatus between Book ’em, Danno seasons, giving myself a little more of a break and a little more time to get ready before kicking off Season 8.

You might have noticed that I didn’t blog at all in March. I don’t want to completely put the blog on hiatus, but I think posts will be happening randomly instead of on a weekly schedule. If I have the time and energy, you will know.

There’s not much I can do about the caregiving, the library work, and the housework, but without those other balls, the juggling will get a lot easier.

Maybe even easy enough that when it’s time to add those other balls back in, I’ll be a juggling pro.

Poem–“Messages from Space”

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A piece of white blue lined notebook paper with a shimmer of rainbow crossing it.And so comes the end of National Poetry Month. Last terrible poem! Of the month, anyway. But let’s not dwell on that. The important part is that you made it.

My final poem is last year’s Day 16 theme, something fantastic. This could be something truly terrific or something really out there. Pure fantasy if you will.

I love the juxtaposition of the fantastic and mundane, so I decided to turn the daily routine of getting the mail into a space adventure.

This poetic form is a cinquain, a five line poem with specific syllable requirements. The first line has two syllables, the second line has four syllables, the third line has six syllables, the fourth line has eight syllables, and the final line has two syllables.

Messages from Space

tripping
over stardust
jumping moonbeams, dodging
comet tails on my way to the
mailbox

Poem–“First Time Rock Star”

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

A piece of white blue lined notebook paper with a shimmer of rainbow crossing it.You’re almost done with terrible poetry for National Poetry Month. Feel the burn!

Last year’s Day 19 theme was a persona poem. My understanding was to write a poem from a particular person’s point of view.

I ended up doing a simple abab rhyming quatrain from the POV of a friend of mine playing his first show after joining a band. He said it helped his stage fright that the lights were bright enough he couldn’t see the audience.

First Time Rock Star

I can’t see the audience beyond the lights,
which I think works in my favor.
Can’t get dizzy if I don’t see the heights.
So, I’m left with the feeling to savor.

Poem–“Take a Chance”

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A piece of white blue lined notebook paper with a shimmer of rainbow crossing it.We’re at the half-way point of terrible poetry for National Poetry Month. Way to hang in there! You can do it!

This was last year’s Day 12 theme, a risky poem. It could be about taking a risk or avoiding a risk or being risky. Anything involving or about risk. I decided to write a poem about falling in love because what’s a bigger risk than that?

This poetic form is a chant, which requires a repeated line.

Take a Chance

Your heart is delicate, but it’s not made of glass.
What do you have to lose?

Just think of your balls. They’re made of brass.
What do you have to lose?

The height is an illusion. It only feels too tall.
What do you have to lose?

No matter what you think, you’ll survive the fall.
What do you have to lose?

Poem–“Tension”

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A piece of white blue lined notebook paper with a shimmer of rainbow crossing it.National Poetry Month and the terrible poetry continues!

Last year’s Day 7 theme was tense. This could be tense situations or muscle conditions or verb presentations.

I decided to use a little free verse to write about the meaning I was most familiar with.

Tension

It’s an invisible wire
pulling on points
so subtly that
when the wire

releases

muscles fall like
marionette limbs,
and in the relief
you realize that
all this time
you weren’t ready.
You were just

tense.

Poem–“Daylight Savings Swindle”

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A piece of white blue lined notebook paper with a shimmer of rainbow crossing it.It’s National Poetry Month, which means the return of weekly terrible poetry.

This year’s selection of poems were written last year during the National Poetry Month Poem-a-Day challenge. So, let’s kick it off with last year’s Day Three theme, a short poem. The poem could be short, but the poem could also be about something short or being short on something.

Here’s a short free verse poem about how I am always short on time.

Daylight Savings Swindle

Time
is a con
by Big Clock
to sell minutes
at prices I
can’t afford. That’s
why I’m so
short on
time.

I Know That Face

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Split picture showing Grandma Bert, a white woman in her fifties with short, wavy hair and a big smile. She's wearing Santa Clause earrings, a red blouse, and a flower print vest and Kiki, a white woman in her forties with short brown and silver hair and a big smile. She's wearing a white shirt, a black vest, and she's got sunglasses on the top of her head.I do not look like my parents. I don’t look like my sister. And my sister doesn’t look like either of our parents. Growing up, I heard, “you don’t look like your mom” and “you don’t look like your dad” a lot. I once had someone tell me that one of my friends looked more like my sister than my actual sister does. Our family portraits look like Olan MIlls grabbed four randos off the street to create a sample family portrait to lure legitimate families in for a sit.

This isn’t a case of adoption or babies swapped in the hospital (I maintain that my mother made us do the ancestry DNA thing because she was sure that she’d taken the wrong babies home). We aren’t total strangers. My eye color comes from my dad and his dad. I sound like my mom’s sister and sometimes my sister and sometimes my mom. But, the point is that I’ve gotten used to not seeing myself in my family. I’m not like my cousins or my friends who ended up being carbon copies of their parents, or have children that are replicas of themselves. I look like me and no one else.

Except maybe not so much anymore.

A long time ago, my dad’s aunt told me that I had the same kind of cheekbones as my grandma. I dismissed it at the time because I didn’t really see it. I’ve always had excellent cheekbones even at my heaviest and I admit that my grandma had some fabulous cheekbones, too, but I never thought they were similar.

Carrie once told me that she always wondered where my nose came from until she saw a picture of my grandma. I never thought our noses looked that much alike, so I dismissed the notion of similarity. After all, I’d always looked like me and nobody else.

And then one day, a friend of mine and I took a selfie and when I saw it, I immediately thought, “Holy shit, I look like my grandma”.

Because I kinda do.

It seems that as I’ve gotten older, I’m aging into resembling her.

This is not a bad thing. I think it’s a good thing. My grandma was a beautiful woman. It’s just not something that I anticipated happening. I spent my life only looking like me. It never occurred to me that I might age into looking like someone else in my family. Obviously, I’m not evolving into her mini me (except maybe in attitude and willingness to use a fly swatter as a weapon), but the similarities that we do have, the features that I did inherit, have become more pronounced as I’ve aged. It’s honestly kind of wild.

My grandma died in 2004 when she was 65. I was 24 then. I’m 46 now. I admit that sometimes when I catch sight of myself in the mirror or in pictures and I think I’m look like my grandma, it’s a little bittersweet. ‘Cause I miss her.

I can only hope that I continue to age well in her honor.

Poem–“A Proposal”

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

A piece of white blue lined notebook paper with a shimmer of rainbow crossing it.Let’s have a terrible love-ish poem for Valentine’s Day.

I wrote this during the 2024 November Poem-A-Day challenge, but I think it definitely fits the current vibe. I might just use this in my dating app profiles.

It’s free verse because of course. When in doubt, I go free verse.

A Proposal

Do you want to hold hands
while we wait to die?
Spend nights deciding on dinner
while the world burns?
Go to the post office together
while we wait for the final straw?
Spend forever together
while forever gets shorter every day?

I Wrote Myself a Fairy Tale

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A light brown and light red pen lying on a sheet of lined notebook paper.Almost 30 years ago at my first legit paycheck job, I entertained my coworker’s toddler daughter by telling her a story. I told her to pick five words and I’d make a story out of them. And I did. I told her a wild fairy tale using all of her words, which kept her preoccupied while her mom was able to finish what she needed to do without worrying about her kid. All I remember about that story is that it had a gasoline fairy in it. My coworker at the time was impressed with my talent to come up with a story on the fly, but honestly, for me it wasn’t hard. I’d been telling myself stories all my life.

Decades later, I’m still telling myself stories.

I have insomnia. I had it bad when I was a teenager. It got better in my twenties and thirties. It has returned in my forties, thanks in part to perimenopause. Sleeping through the night without getting up to pee at least once is now a luxury that I’m not often afforded. Getting back to sleep after that bathroom trip is also no longer a given. It’s not uncommon for me to toss and turn for an hour or two before falling back to sleep, if I’m lucky. Some nights, there is no more sleep. Even though my brain and body are tired, it’s like I’ve forgotten how to sleep, never mind that I was just doing it before I got up to pee.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself in the familiar situation of trying to get back to sleep after a middle of the night bathroom trip and I was failing. I’d already been awake for an hour and I was starting to get frustrated. For whatever reason, the memory of telling my coworker’s daughter a story came back to me. I found myself thinking about what kind of story I’d tell my current coworker’s daughter, who is about the same age as the old coworker’s little girl was then.

So, I started telling myself the story I thought she might like.

I fell asleep telling myself a fairy tale.

When I woke up the next morning, I still had much of the story lodged in my brain and I thought, “You know, I’m on vacation. I have time. I should write this down.” So, I did. For the first time in months, I wrote the first draft of a short story. It took a few days over the course of a week because things happened, but I got it done. It clocked in at a little over 3,000 words and it’s actually pretty decent for a first draft, especially when you consider I’ve never written anything like this before. Well, if you don’t count that first story I told, which I don’t since I didn’t write it down.

Aside from revising it, I have no real plan for what I’m going to do with it. It was just a fun thing that I did, a reminder of how much I can enjoy writing. I think not writing with any expectation of what I’m writing helped me get it written. There was no objective here, no goal in mind. It wasn’t a have to. It was just a story that I wanted to write.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done that. Since I’ve allowed myself to do that.

Maybe that’s how I get back into writing regularly again. Find my way back to the joy and desire I’ve lost. I take off the pressure and the have, the need to be published, to try to make it into a career.

Maybe it’s time to just go back to telling myself stories.

I can always tell them to other people later.