Tag: Megalomania

Listen to the Band

~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

A white guitar and white drum kit in front of a blue starburst background.I have experienced more live music in the last five months than I have in the last fifteen years.

Here’s the thing. I love music. My love encompasses pretty much every genre. I retain song lyrics better than important information. I wish I could adequately play an instrument. I love to sing (being good at it is another story). I sing along with the radio and the songs in the grocery store. Music is my preferred background noise when I’m writing. I’m listening to a retro mix as I write this blog post.

However, I don’t go to many concerts. Living in a small town in the middle of nowhere, concerts tend to require a drive. Also, concerts have crowds, typically large crowds for the bigger acts, which does a number on my anxiety. And concerts are expensive and I’ve spent much of my adult life broke. So, live music hasn’t always been accessible to my broke-ass, semi-functioning self.

This isn’t to say that there aren’t local bands at smaller venues in my vicinity. I spent my teens going to Modern Cowboyz gigs. I’ve seen a bunch of different acts at the Apple and Pork Festival. There are always bands playing at the local bars. I have experienced local live music and I could have experienced much more if I’d left my house more often.

As it happens, I’ve recently been creating a social life for myself and this has led me to more live music.

I blame Dad Shorts, honestly.

A couple of guys I work with -one of whom is the cousin of one of my besties, Haley- are in a band called Dad Shorts. When they played a gig at a brewery down the street, I ended up going with Haley. The band was awesome, we had a blast, and the next thing I know, I’m anticipating the next show. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be for months, and at the time, I didn’t even know when their next gig would be.

It didn’t mean that I was left bereft, though.

In the meantime, the son of another one of my good friends, Amanda, did a solo set at a bar nearby. Hunter is a super talented kid who’s played solo and with bands for a few years. I had a blast just chilling in the bar with Amanda and Haley listening to him jam, just him and his guitar.

The library I work at has also been trying to book more music during the summer months, taking advantage of our newly installed pavilion and our lovely lawn. I ended up seeing both of the groups that played the library this past summer. The first -Dick and Brad- are the father and brother-in-law of yet another best good friend, Natalie, and they come with a built in audience because their family always comes to see them, which is fab. Dick and Brad are really good, too, of course, I knew that. It was yet another night with a couple of besties, Natalie and Haley, and some music we were all singing along to.

The other band -Union Avenue- is an awesome swing band and there was actually swing dance lessons before the band played. Union Avenue also had a loyal group of followers, all swing dancers, who somehow made dancing on the grass look easy. Did I go for a swing? Yes. One of the dancers was very persuasive and a very good teacher. He took me and two of my coworkers for a whirl. It was a lot of fun. I didn’t know a single song the band played and it didn’t matter. I loved it.

And then Haley gave me the news that Dad Shorts would be playing at the Eagles during the Apple and Pork Festival the last weekend in September and I was going to be her date. One thing led to another and I ended up seeing them play three times in a week -twice in the same weekend- in three different bars in two different towns. At this point, I think I’m riding the line between fan and stalker, but I don’t care. They’re so good! I can’t wait to see them play again.

I didn’t anticipate cultivating a social life at this stage of my existence and I certainly didn’t anticipate so much of it revolving around music.

But I’ll certainly sing along.

Apropos of Nothing

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Black and white photo of a puddle on pavement with several leaves floating on the surface.I do not mourn terrible people.

Call it a quirk cultivated from decades of lived experience.

It doesn’t matter their flavor of terrible. It doesn’t matter how they ultimately exited this mortal plane. I do not mourn them.

Now don’t get it twisted. Don’t confuse my lack of mourning for celebration. Apathy is not glee. Just because I’m not entirely sad to see someone’s exit doesn’t mean I rooted for their departure. Think of the Loki meme. “Yes, very sad. Anyway.” It’s a similar vibe.

I realize that this sort of attitude can lead to a lot of questions.

“Who are you to say someone is terrible?”

Well, I am me. And I get to decide who is terrible according to my criteria for terribleness. Just like everyone else does.

“What about that person’s family?”

What about them? Terrible people frequently have parents, siblings, partners, children, friends. That affords them no virtue. If anything, it provides them with their mourners. Do I feel bad for them to have lost someone dear to them? Eh. In the very vague, general sense of death sucks and it’s a lot of paperwork. That’s about it.

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead!”

That’s not a question. Also, I do not abide by the belief that an asshole never dies. If you don’t want to be spoken ill of in death, don’t be garbage in life. If accurately and factually recounting things a dead person said or did in their life is speaking ill of them, then your problem is not with me.

“Where is your empathy?”

In my pocket where I always keep it. I sprinkle it at my discretion. I also find it wasted on those who never developed their own sense of empathy during their life. Terrible people frequently fail to do this.

“What if it was a member of your family?”

Then folks would have to get in line to talk shit because my family canonizes no one. If you were terrible in life, then they’re going to put that in your eulogy, if they go to the funeral at all. Most of the time, it’s not even said out of disrespect. We all know how someone really was, and not saying it doesn’t change the truth. We’ll just go ahead and say it.

“What if it was you?”

Gonna be honest here. Being dead is probably going to be the bigger problem for me. Also, I’ll be dead, so I won’t really care. I have already accepted that there will be people who mourn me, people who are glad to see me go, people who celebrate my demise, and people who are entirely indifferent to the whole affair. I have no doubt that I am someone’s terrible person. Maybe I’m yours, right now, for writing this. Maybe I now fit your terrible person criteria.

That’s fine. What is it that they say? What other people think of me is none of my business. Well, that applies in death, too. What other people think of me after I’m gone is also none of my business.

I don’t expect you to mourn me if I should predecease you.

So, don’t expect me to mourn terrible people if they beat me to that finish line.

Because I won’t.

It’s Podcast Season

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

An old school chrome microphone with rainbow sound waves on a white background. Image by Tumisu on Pixbay..I currently do three podcasts.

I’m in charge of the library’s podcast at the library I work at. I co-host Here, Watch This with my friend Shann. And I have Book ’em, Danno: An Old Hawaii Five-O Podcast.

The library podcast is monthly and Here, Watch This has gone to every other month due to real life obligations for both me and Shann. The library episodes range anywhere from 5 to 30 minutes and my part of the Here, Watch This episodes are usually between 15-20 minutes. Book ’em, Danno is monthly from September to July with an extra episode in December and sometimes May depending on the schedule. The episodes tend to run about an hour long because I get long-winded when talking about Steve McGarrett.

The length of the episodes doesn’t accurately reflect the amount of time put into each episode.

I’ve gotten the recording, editing, proofing, and transcribing of the library podcasts down to a science. Depending on the length of the episode, it can take anywhere from 1 1/2 to 3 hours. Since I have to do all of that at home, that’s comp time. What I don’t keep as diligent track of is the prep work that goes into each episode because I usually do that at the library. Depending on the episode, the research and script work that goes into an episode can be substantial. I might only do a few hours work on an episode about a library service, but that can easily double if I’m spotlighting something in our archives or writing up summaries for a recommendation episode. And if I’m doing a local history episode…we’re talking hours in the double digits. The longer the episode, the more extensive the research.

Here, Watch This is another deceptively easy podcast because Shann does the heavy lifting with editing the episodes (and bless her for it). I’m just responsible for recording and doing a basic edit for my part, which often times takes me less than 2 hours. But the prep work -watching the assigned episode of the chosen show, writing up the synopsis and organizing my thoughts into a coherent script- can take 4 to 6 hours.

And then there’s Book ’em, Danno.

Book ’em, Danno is the reason why I spend so much time scripting the other two podcasts. When I first started this podcast back in the long, long ago, I approached it the same way that I did my appearances on Eventually, Supertrain. I watched the episode a couple of times and then talked about it. In the beginning, I didn’t even write out a synopsis for the episode. I just worked from my notes and hoped for the best. It took me about eight episodes of the series before I wised up. I spent -and still do spend- more time doing guest cast research than any other prep work.

Which results in an editing endurance trial every single time. It takes HOURS to edit a single episode of Book ’em, Danno. HOURS.

On average, it takes me two weeks to produce one episode of Book ’em, Danno. This is because, even if I had time to do everything in one or two or three days, I would lose my mind if I tried. I simply could not. So, I spread it out over the course of ten days. Two days for watching the episodes in order to write the synopsis. Two days of watching the episodes for my notes on what I want to talk about. One day of recording. Four to five days for editing, uploading, and writing up the blog post for the episode.

That guest cast prep? The entire season is done over the course of a couple months, usually at the end of the previous season.

With all of my podcasts, I work ahead. Here, Watch This episodes are usually done the month before, or the first week of the month of the episode going live. I only have one episode left to record for the library’s podcast this year, and 6 of the 12 needed for next year done.

Book ’em, Danno’s “seasons” provide an interesting challenge. Since the new season starts in September for me, I start working on it in August with the goal of having all of the episodes scheduled to go live through December done by the end of October. This means working on 2 to 3 episodes a month. Then I can get away with only doing one up episode a month through the holidays and my birthday before picking up the pace again in February, with the goal of having every episode finished before the end of May. Throw in guest prep for the upcoming season during May and June, and I’m guaranteed to get at least July off before it starts all over again.

Could I make Book ’em, Danno easier on myself? Absolutely. I’ve gotten less persnickety with my editing over the years, but I’m still pretty demanding. I could always shift more of my hours into prep work to reduce the amount of editing I need to do. I could always talk less. I endeavor to talk less. I never talk less. Honestly, I’ve sort of fallen into my groove of how I produce the show and I don’t see a way of getting out of it.

So, if I complain about everything I have to do or how I’m stressed with my schedule or how I’m sick of listening to the sound of my own voice, just ignore me.

It’s podcast season.

Welcome to the Jungle

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Bright, dark orange Mexican Sunflowers close to the green grass with poke berries towering over them next to a light blue sided house. Everything is dappled with sunlight.Last year on a whim, I brought home a few packets of flower seeds from work (we have a seed library at the library) and actually planted some of them. I expected nothing of a my zinnias, dahlias, and morning glories. The only thing I’ve ever successfully kept alive is an aloe plant that I brought home from the library’s garden table a couple of years ago and really, I can’t even claim credit. Aloysius is a very hearty, fertile little shit that keeps having babies and now I’ve got an entire jungle of aloe plants: Vera, Larry, Darryl (RIP Other Brother Darryl, who didn’t survive a pot upgrade), Large Marge, Sneaky Pete, Bobo and Lil’ Debil. I also have Tink, the tiny jade plant, and what remains of Cal Calhoun, my kalanchoe that was doing fine until it wasn’t, but I think I saved it. Maybe.

Anyway, my point is that I’ve never grown anything from a seed with any success before, but last year I decided to give it a whirl. And it worked out, mostly. My dahlias went nowhere, but my zinnias and morning glories grew and blossomed and made me feel like a real green thumb. I left them in their pots as I got them started late in the season and I also wasn’t feeling brave enough to try transplanting. They looked good on my patio table while I had them, though that morning glory loved to tangle itself in the furniture.

Bolstered by this victory, I decided to try it again this year. I acquired zinnias, hollyhocks, butterfly weed, Mexican sunflowers, regular sunflowers, marigolds, bee balm, and I even decided to try my hand at a couple of herbs, cilantro and basil.

It was an exercise in failure.

Nothing came of my bee balm and butterfly weed despite two tries. My zinnias and hollyhocks sprouted and then died. My sunflower and marigolds were doing great, but didn’t survive the transplant from the pot to the outdoors. My cilantro was thriving until it suddenly wasn’t and nothing I did saved it.

I thought my basil was going to be another failure. It was puny and I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to last. But as my cilantro took a turn for the worse, but basil pushed into glory. Maybe it stole it’s windowsill mate’s essence, I don’t know. But now I have an unusually tall, happy basil plant that I need to utilize.

I also thought my Mexican sunflowers were gonners like the sunflowers and marigolds as I transplanted them at the same time. I put them just outside of the “jungle”, a spot at the corner of our house that has featured hostas and elephant garlic, but has in the past few years been taken over by pokeweed. Usually, it gets trimmed up during the early part of the summer so it’s not so unruly (one year it successfully grew between the window panes and into the house), but with everything going on, that didn’t happen. This year’s crop is multiple plants and it’s huge. I’ve pruned it several times, but I was sure that since I let it go so long it would overpower my Mexican sunflowers and kill them.

However, every time I checked, my little Mexican sunflowers were still there, still growing. They grew funky because of the pokeweed, but the two plants somehow thrived.

Last month they blessed me with their pretty blooms.

So, yes. My plant endeavors were largely a failure this year, but I am cherishing the victories I did manage.

I’m taking this as a metaphor for life.

I Left My Shit on the Porch (Literally)

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Christin Haws aka KikiWrites, a white woman with short dark hair and grey-blue eyes, is drinking out of a white coffee much with blue text that reads 'I could use a little moral support...immoral support would be fine too…' and has a little face with a tongue sticking out in the middle.In January, I turned 45. In June, I had my yearly check-up with my primary doctor, where she informed me that it was time to do my first colon cancer check.

Ah, yes. I had been warned of this at my med check in December when my 45th birthday was less than a month away. The age for colon cancer screenings has been lowered to 45 and than meant it would be coming for me by our next appointment.

And she didn’t forget.

My doctor gave me two options because I’m at average risk for colon cancer. She said that I could do the full shebang colonoscopy that required the day and a half of prep, much of which would be spent on the toilet clearing out my bowels of everything I’d eaten in the last six to seven years, and the procedure, which would require me to be put under anesthesia, which meant I’d need someone to drive me to and from the procedure, and given my history of anesthesia, probably take care of me for the rest of the day because holy shit does it render me useless. So, we’re talking a two to three day ordeal, but if it came back negative, I wouldn’t have to do it again for another ten years.

The other option was Colaguard. They send you the kit, you collect the sample, you send it back, and if it comes back negative, you don’t have to do it again for three years, at which time you could always ask to do a proper colonoscopy.

Given everything going on in my life at the time -my father’s health, being his primary caretaker, not having someone who could take care of me- I chose to shit in a box.

Let me be perfectly clear: Colaguard is great. It makes it very easy to do this in the comfort of your own bathroom. Everything you need is included in the box. The step-by-step instructions are clear. Sending the sample back is easy. They make this so easy and so convenient. It’s honestly terrific. Their entire gig is 10/10. No complaints.

However.

I ended up receiving my Colaguard while my father was doing his latest stint in the hospital and I was driving 30 minutes back and forth to see him in the hospital before work. I was also due for fasting blood work to be done, and was struggling to get that accomplished. So, I was a little bit stressed and didn’t really have time to be dealing with this. But they prefer that you provide the sample soonish after receiving your kit, so I was then further pressed to find a time when I had time to do this and when I’d be prepared to give the sample, if you know what I mean.

The Friday of the week I received my kit I suppose fortune smiled on me. It was my day off. I was sitting at the local hospital waiting to get my blood work done (and starving in the process) when my father called to let me know that he was being discharged. I arranged to pick him up later than afternoon so I could get my blood work done (since that was already happening), run some errands, and do a little housework, which I’d been neglecting due to lack of time, energy, and will to live. And as fate would have it, I was also blessed with an urge to shit.

I am grateful that I had the opportunity to do this while I was home alone because I was a giggling goober while getting everything set up. To make this as mess-free as possible, Colaguard provides you with a kind of holder that goes across your toilet that the specimen cup sits right in. You poop directly in the cup, no shit fishing required. It’s great.

However.

Where that cup sits is right under your butt. You can feel it touching your cheeks. Or maybe I can feel it touch my cheeks because I have such ample cheeks. And I don’t know about your body, but my body says that if something is touching me in that fashion, I cannot poop. Not supposed to poop there. This is a no pooping zone.

So, here I am, 45 years old, doing an out loud pep talk to myself to get me to shit in a cup. Hire me out as a motivational speaker because I eventually convinced myself to do it.

Once you shit in the specimen container, you do have to obtain a separate sample to be put in a tube with some liquid. Again, they make it as easy and mess-free as possible. You swirl this little specimen stick in your shit, get a sample on the end of the stick, and put the whole stick in a tube.. Easy. Unless you’re me. Then you find yourself questioning whether or not there’s an ample amount of shit on the end of your stick. Eventually -probably a minute and multiple swirls too long- I convinced myself that it was good enough.

I got everything labeled and preserved (my doctor made sure to tell me that the liquid included in the kit was for preserving the shit and not to be taken internally, as some people had apparently made that mistake) and packaged up. I then need to schedule a delivery. By this point in the day, my shit would have to be picked up on Saturday. That’s fine. I put it on the mail table by the front door and went on with my day, including picking up my discharged father from the hospital, who found it very amusing that my shit was sitting by the front door.

I put my shit on the front porch the next morning before I went to work so the UPS guy could pick it up.

Now, here’s the thing.

They don’t give you a time for the pick up, just the day. I know that the UPS guy delivers in the afternoon, but having never had him pick anything up before, I had no idea if he did that at a different time. As it turns out, he picks up when he drops off. But I didn’t know that until it happened. So, my shit sat on the front porch all day and I spent all day fretting about my shit on the front porch. Because it was hot and my front porch isn’t covered. Would my shit get too hot if it sat out there too long? Would that ruin the sample? Would I have to go through this again? Would the UPS man hold it against me because I made him pick up my shit? The mind runs wild while you’re waiting for your shit to disappear from the front porch.

To free you from the suspense, the UPS man picked up my shit, the sample was received just fine, and, most importantly, it was negative.

I look forward to doing this all again in three years.

So, if you’re 45 or older, get your colon cancer screenings, and if you’re of average risk and not up to a colonoscopy, I highly suggest going the Colaguard route.

It’s a worthwhile adventure.

And We’ve Got Ants (The Burnout Is Real)

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Black and white photo of a puddle on pavement with several leaves floating on the surface.June and July were spectacularly challenging months.

My father ended up in the ER four times in June. The first time was early in the month with what was determined to be a COPD flare up. He then went twice in the same weekend later in the month, first for abdominal pain, and then for difficulty breathing. The latter led to a 911 call at 3 in the morning and him being hospitalized for four days.

While he was in the hospital, I was driving 30 minutes each way visiting him every day while also working and trying to figure out when I was going to get my yearly blood work done, and how I was going to get my colon cancer check done (that turned out to be an interesting side quest), and when I was going to get the housework done and the errands run. I had planned on using my day off that week to play catch up. I had called Dad that morning and we agreed that unless he was getting discharged, I’d stay home and call him again that evening to check in. I was actually waiting at the local hospital to get my blood work done when I got the call that he was being discharged. My day off turned into a day of shenanigans, but I got him home.

And then Monday, I came home from work and we went back to the ER for abdominal pain. Again. What do you know? He had some inflammation in his stomach lining, most likely an ulcer. Neat. More meds and something else to discuss with his primary doctor.

Because when you’re admitted to the hospital, you have to follow up with your doctors after you’re discharged. My dad has four doctors, which means four follow up appointments, three of which are 30-35 minutes away. And every discharge and follow up appointment and ER visit comes with new meds and med changes. In that two week period, I went to the local pharmacy four or five times.

As the month of June wrapped up, my sister’s visit drew closer. She, my brother-in-law, and my baby niece were driving up from Texas to visit family. They’d planned on staying at the house, which meant my small dwelling was about to acquire three extra people and it was barely in a fit state for the two living there. This isn’t to say that I don’t clean. I just don’t clean enough. It’s fine if you live here, but not if you’re company. Especially if you’d like to stay in this establishment and the upkeep of the rooms available hasn’t been a high priority on the To Do List.

The truth is I haven’t done much of anything with Carrie’s room since she passed aside from packing up some of the more important items and sending them to her parents. It’s still largely like she left it. Even the easiest thing -going through her clothes and donating/tossing them- has been put off. The only reason I washed her duvet is because the cat threw up on it (thanks for that motivation, Antoinette). I did end up doing some dusting and vacuuming at the end of June in the early stages of preparing for my sister’s visit, but that was about it.

The Box Room is a hopeless mess. My inability to have it ready in time for their visit was the main reason that my sister and her family ended up staying in a hotel, which turned out to be for the best. Just their daily visits of a few hours wore Dad out. Having them in the house the whole time would have exhausted him.

I did have time to catch up on some of the yard work before the visit. I mow about every week, but the trimming and the “jungle” (a cluster of plants, mostly pokeberry, at the corner of the house) had been neglected. It took me a little over an hour to get it all neatened up so the house looked less abandoned by the time everyone arrived.

Also, we have ants. We get ants every year and this year isn’t nearly as bad as previous years, except for the fact that I cannot get rid of them. Every time it looks like they’re gone, a missed crumb calls them back to the kitchen counter in full force. So, that’s been a fun, ongoing battle that I’ve been losing.

I am glad to say that my sister’s visit went well. If anyone noticed that I forgot to wipe up the crumbs by the toaster, nobody mentioned it.

It occurred to me during this particularly extra challenging period of my recent existence that I might be a little burned out. Some bad habits started to reemerge (a creeping increase of screentime, procrastinating tasks, bedtime procrastination to my detriment). The constant fatigue, tiredness, and exhaustion. The casual neglect of my needs and the default to lazy behaviors. The overwhelming feeling that I can’t keep up with anything and I’m failing at everything.

It’s not surprising that I would be burned out as I’m already terrible at functioning at an adult level and I’ve been forced to go full-throttle at it for the last nine or so months. Care giving is an adventure. Some days Dad does pretty well and some days he doesn’t. I have no idea what I’m waking up to every morning or walking into when I come home from work. And between care giving and work, there are no days off. It’s not like my dad requires constant care, but I’m on-call 24/7. I make sure he gets his meds and takes his meds, I get him to his appointments where I am his knowledge keeper and translator (he has trouble hearing). I make sure he’s eaten. I am his problem solver on the days that he doesn’t feel well (“Have you tried X, Y, and Z?”). I get a couple of hours here and there that I’m able to get out of the house and not do caregiver or work-related things.

And I haven’t even talked about the work-related things, library or creative.

I honestly don’t even feel entitled to my burnout. I feel like other people would be handling all of this much better than I have and than I am, so I don’t really deserve to be burned out. Other people would have the gutters and their dead roommate’s room cleaned out by now.

But the burnout is real for me and I’m doing my best to deal with it. Not by going easy on myself, of course. I don’t deserve that. Instead, I’m trying to make the manageable bits more manageable so they don’t become overwhelming. It requires a lot of list making and organizing things on paper because I do better when I can see the contents of my brain. Hopefully, it will eventually help.

So, why the long-winded whine?

It’s one of the immutable laws of the internet.

Complain online, and the complaint fixes itself.

The Bisexual Journey Continues

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

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.I’m forty-five years old. I came out as bisexual at seventeen. I knew from a young age that I was into both men and women.

It’s very easy to assume that my sexuality journey was short, sweet, and to the point. There’s nothing more to learn. Like those concrete heterosexuals, I knew from a young age that I was 50/50 on my bi-ness. Done and dusted.

For some people, that is very true. The journey is more like a trip to the mailbox. Got my info. I’m good to go. And I thought that was what my journey was. I had myself sorted from a young age. I was good to go.

But that’s not quite how it worked out for me.

When it comes to my own bisexuality, I find myself regularly checking in to verify that I’m still bisexual. After all, there’s a lot of messaging from both the queer and straight communities that bisexuality isn’t valid. Maybe I am confused. Maybe I’m pretending to be something I’m not. But every check-in has verified my bisexual identity so far. Sorry, haters.

As I’ve gone through my life, the questioning has continued in light of other people’s journeys intersecting with mine and my continuing education in and from the queer community. Am I attracted to trans people? Am I attracted to non-binary people? What does it mean if I am or if I’m not?

I’ve adjusted my identity a little as result of my answers to these questions. Trans men are men and trans women are women, so they fall in my already determined attraction categories. I’ve also found myself occasionally attracted to people who identify as non-binary, gender fluid, or agender. While I still use the bisexual label, I will also refer to myself as Bi+ or queer. Pansexual might apply, but it doesn’t feel right for me, so I don’t use it.

Recently, I had an epiphany that has once again altered my self-perception a little, a shift within my bisexual identity.

Quick recap: Sexuality is who you are sexually attracted to. Romantic attraction is who you’re romantically attracted to. Sexual attraction and romantic attraction often match up, but not always. In my case, I always thought that they did. I considered myself 50/50 sexually attracted to men and women, and 50/50 romantically attracted to men and women. Bisexual, bi romantic.

Turns out, that’s not entirely accurate.

I am bisexual and I am bi romantic, but it’s not the 50/50 split I always thought it was.

I’m not exactly sure what the process was that led me to this realization. Like I said, it was something of an epiphany. Whatever the case, it occurred to me that I’m actually more sexually attracted to women and I’m more romantically attracted to men.

In retrospect, this is obvious. I knew I was attracted to women before I realized I was attracted to men, yet most of my romantic crushes were on guys. It’s easier for me to find women attractive than it is for me to find men attractive. But when I think about having a partner, I think about that partner being a man more often than I think about them being a woman. Part of that could be latent heteronormative conditioning, but I think it’s more just how my romantic attraction works.

I look forward to exploring this new found understanding of myself.

Another twist on the journey I thought I’d finished.

The Clock on the Wall

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

For those of you just tuning in, I work at my local library. It’s a small town library, so we have a staff of less than twenty people. I have to admit that it’s probably the best job I’ve ever had, thanks largely in part to the people that I work with. They’re a fun bunch.

Which means I get away with shit that I probably wouldn’t get away with at other jobs.

For example, the clock on the wall.

When you work the circulation desk like I do, one of your responsibilities is signing people up for the library computers that sit behind the desk. It’s very low key. We just write down their name, what computer they use, and what time they sign in. Part of this is for computer usage statistics, but it’s also in case someone leaves something behind at the computer. Knowing their name and the time, we have a better idea of who it belongs to. Who leaves things at the computers? Everybody. We’ve found all sorts of things over there.

The computers sit along the wall behind the circulation desk with the computer screens facing us (we don’t care what you’re doing, but we will take a glance now and then to make sure its library appropriate). There’s a sort of half-wall partition that separates the computers from the aisle just behind the circ desk. On one side of that is a where a clock usually hangs. That’s where I and several of my coworkers automatically look when we sign people in for the computers.

For whatever reason -be it poor mounting, poor clock design, bad luck, or the ghost of our very first librarian Mrs. Rose- the clock that we had liked to fall off the wall. Just take a leap. Sometimes we could attribute it to someone walking by, but sometimes it just happened. A couple of times the clock was damaged, but repairable. Once it was fixed, it went back on the wall. It’s final fall was a fatal one, though, and a few days after its demise, it was replaced.

That clock lasted a few weeks before it, too, fell off the wall.

The decision was made not to put the clock back up there. Instead, we have a small clock that sits on the back of the circulation desk. Everyone knows its there. I know its there. And yet-

I still look at the damn wall when I sign someone into the computer.

I cannot seem to break this habit. Even with a clock in front of me on the desk, even with a watch on my wrist, even with my phone in my pocket, I still look to the wall for the time. And the time, folks, is not there.

In an act of desperation to help me break the habit, I put up a new clock, the clock that you see in the picture. A clock to remind my dumbass that the time no longer sits on the wall. I end up looking at that 404 clock multiple times a shift because I. Will. Not. Learn. My director and my coworkers thought it was funny and were apparently fine with its existence.

The other day I came in for my shift to find my clock on the circ desk. I thought a coworker had revealed their buzzkill nature and took it down, but no.

It fell off the wall.

I guess Mrs. Rose is the buzzkill after all.

It Was Her Birthday

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

This past Sunday would have been Carrie’s 52nd birthday.

Carrie wasn’t the biggest fan of her birthday because it was a reminder that she was getting older, and she didn’t want to be reminded of that. I suppose she’d like her birthday more now since she’ll never get older.

No doubt there are some people who might think that observation was in poor taste, but she wouldn’t. She’d get what I was saying and she’d agree.

If you thought you missed me saying something about Carrie’s birthday on Sunday, let me assure you that you didn’t. Thanks to social media, I found another way that I’m weird.

It turns out that I don’t like publicly acknowledging the birthdays of those close to me who have passed or their association with certain holidays or the anniversaries of their departures from this mortal plane, the dates they stopped getting older. I know a lot of people do this and it’s perfectly fine and acceptable and I do not begrudge them in the least. I’ve read some very sweet and touching posts in this vein. It’s just not something I want to do. I’m not comfortable grieving publicly. I’m not given to sharing the bitter and the sweet of some memories online.

“But what about this post?!”

I need you to not be pedantic for two seconds, okay? You know what this is. This is me defending my apparent insensitivity because I don’t feel comfortable publicly expressing my grief with memorial posts on social media.

I once joked with Carrie that I wrote “happy birthday” on her Facebook even though we lived in the same house because it doesn’t count unless you say it on social media. Sometimes I feel that way when I see people post sweet things about departed loved ones on holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. I feel like people think that I’m not grieving or keeping loved ones in my heart and thoughts if I don’t say it out loud for everyone to like, heart, and care.

This is 100% a perception thing. I certainly don’t think that about other people. But I have a tendency to think the worst of myself, so I believe that everyone else does, too. I’m sure not everyone does. They probably should, but I’m sure they don’t. The most likely scenario is that they don’t think of it at all. It wouldn’t occur to them to judge me like that. I don’t occupy their thoughts the way I occupy mine.

But in case it does cross your mind, in case you do wonder, in case you are inclined to judge, I do mark the birthdays, the holidays, the anniversaries. I just do it quietly, to myself. I dwell on it as long as my heart can take and then I go on with my day.

There is no wrong answer here when it comes to dealing with such complex and complicated feelings. Some people feel better opening up and some people keep it close.

I’ll keep mine (mostly) to myself.

Chemo Tuesdays

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

As I wrote about in my catch-up post, my dad is undergoing chemo treatment for lung cancer. What started as a six hour infusion every three weeks became a weekly three hour infusion because the man couldn’t stay out of the hospital. So far, it’s worked. He’s been getting his chemo in and he hasn’t been back to the hospital (knock all of the available wood and then some).

His very first chemo treatment back in December was on a Thursday. After two hospital stays in quick succession at the end of the month (the first for anxiety, the second for the flu which he got while in the hospital for anxiety) threw off his chemo schedule, he got back on the cancer treatment horse in January, this time on a Tuesday. He made two chemo appointments in a row (January and early February) before he fell off the wagon, landing in the hospital at the end of February with pneumonia.

Once he got sprung, his oncologist made the call to switch to weekly treatments. Since March, I’ve been taking him to his chemo treatments every Tuesday morning, three weeks on, one week off, but that off week is a check in appointment with the oncology NP to make sure he’s doing okay.

So, every Tuesday since the beginning of March, we’ve been making a thirty-five minute drive to the oncology/hematology office. We park in the tricky, too small lot with the entrance that desperately needs to be graded. I go to the bathroom as soon as we get here because I’m over 40 and my morning blood pressure medicine has a water pill in it. We see the same receptionists, the same phlebotomists, the same nurses, the same patients.

This has become our routine.

It’s a lot of people’s routine. As I said, we see a lot of familiar faces on Tuesday. It seems most people like to keep a routine, too. Not all of them end up back in the treatment room, and Dad is usually too busy coloring to pay much attention to the other patients, but he’s come to recognize a few of them when he sees them.

Camping out in the waiting room, though, I’ve become very familiar with many of the patients as well as the ebb and flow of the Tuesday schedule.

Tuesdays are the clinic’s busiest day. The morning is particularly busy. The word “bustling” was made for the waiting room on a Tuesday morning. Patients are checking in, getting their blood work done, getting their vitals taken, going to their appointments, getting their treatments. Some days there’s a real ocean feel to the waiting room, the crowd swelling and the chairs filling, and then receding as patients are taken care of. The tide goes out around eleven and the pace slows over the lunchtime hour and for the rest of the afternoon.

I’ve come to expect the faces of certain people in this sea. Amber and her boyfriend. Miss Stephanie and her son. Miss Shirley and her son. Miss Fay. Anita. Wayne and his wife. Janet and her granddaughter. Diane and Lisa, two long-haulers who’ve become good friends, joined by their disease. I can see how this happens. You see the same faces every week. For a bunch of sick people, everyone is friendly, typically in a good mood. So, you say hello, get to chatting, and the next thing you know, you’re friends for life. I imagine that it helps to see a familiar face when you’re going through something as difficult as an extended cancer treatment. You might not look forward to the chemo (or more accurately, the after effects), but you’re more motivated to make your appointment when you know a friend is waiting for you.

The staff have a great handle on this. Even if you don’t have a chemo buddy, you’re going to see some familiar, friendly faces that are going to make your day easier. Going weekly, Dad has quickly become a favorite person to some of the staff. He has a way of being endearing when he’s giving you shit.

There’s the unfamiliar faces, too. The new people filling out their induction paperwork, looking nervously around the waiting room, trying to adjust to their new health circumstances and getting the vibe. I want to tell them that they’re in good hands. That if they’re in here often enough, long enough, these faces are going to become familiar. They might even make a friend to help get them through.

My favorite part of Chemo Tuesdays (if you can have a favorite part) is the visits from the therapy dogs. Andrea brings Alfred and Ernie in to get pets from the patients and anyone in the waiting room. Ernie and I have become good friends because I’ve ended up seeing him the most. A third dog, Fritz, is going to be joining the rotation, but I’m not sure I’ll get to meet him.

This week is Dad’s last chemo treatment on the schedule. He’ll get a PET scan and then we’ll go from there.

I really hope that the cancer is dead, done, and dealt with. I hope this is our last Chemo Tuesday.

But a little part of me will also miss the Tuesday waiting room crowd.

Especially the dogs.