MONSTERS

The Guilt Monster showed up on Wednesday. Michael and I had originally planned on staying in Oklahoma until Tuesday morning. I had put down on the work calendar that I would not be back into the office until Thursday. But by Sunday evening, the bagster bags were all full. All that was left was to meet with an estate sales agent on Monday at 3:00 PM. I managed to pawn this meeting off onto my siblings. Turns out the meeting was a waste of time anyway. The agent told my brother and sister that the house had to contain $15,000 worth of stuff to make it worth her time. That was disappointing news, since I was hoping to make things easier on all of us by outsourcing the work. 

Nothing about this is going to be easy.

I spent Tuesday recovering and then sorting through the two bins of photos I had brought home from Mom’s. My mom seemed to have duplicates of every developed roll of film. She had pre-sorted one bin and written my name on the lid, but as I sorted through photos I discovered pictures that my brother would like to have, pictures of him and Pepaw, J’s Eagle Scout ceremony. Then there were old photos of Uncle Russel and his kids and some prom pictures for my sister. I started making piles and have a carefully arranged stack of things to send out to various people. Then Wednesday hit and by 10:30 AM, I had cleaned the whole house and opened up my work email to a number of emails that started with “Cindy, can you…?” I told Michael that I probably should have gone back to work. He disagreed, 

The Guilt Monster did not disagree.

As we pulled out of Mom’s driveway on Monday, I told Michael that I was worried that I didn’t do enough or I am not doing enough. The Guilt Monster was already with me, telling me I was leaving too much for my siblings to take care of. I’m leaning too heavily on the excuse that I don’t live there, that I have to take time off work to make the four hour drive down there. Then the Guilt Monster tells me that my excuses are just excuses, just a way for me to wash over my selfishness. We all want to be done with the albatross that is the contents of our mother’s house. I don’t get a free pass here. And the Guilt Monster will not let me forget it.

So, I spent some time Wednesday virtually working, responding to requests and scheduling microscopes for rescanning some slides for this person and training for that person. I narrowed down some travel dates for MBL. I did all of this thinking that this might appease the Guilt Monster but it did not because there is no appeasing of the Guilt Monster. Even when I have done all the things right, the Guilt Monster will find something I missed or did wrong. This isn’t new. I found three report cards, one from first grade, one from fourth and one from fifth. They all basically said “this child does not fuck around, completes tasks in a timely manner and works independently.” 

The Guilt Monster has been with me since day one. 

Forget the whole ‘step on a crack’ superstition. I have the Guilt Monster to keep me in line, always doing the right thing and whatever is needed. My boss has chided me on a number of occasions for saying ‘yes’ too quickly to an ask. I'm a helper bee. How can I make things better for you, easier for you, happier for you? How can I make your life better? Even if I don’t have time in the schedule that day, I will find time. I have one hundred and fifty something hours of vacation time and the Guilt Monster will not let me use them. Look, I know why I am this way and I know paying homage to the monster will not keep bad things from happening. Yet, it sits in my gut anyway, completely unconcerned about eviction notices. Unlike my mother who on two occasions has been convinced she’s being kicked out of assisted living. 

Do what you can with what you have, where you are. - Theodore Roosevelt

This Teddy quote becomes my mantra every time I get overwhelmed with the guilt that comes with not doing enough. I finally, just a few weeks ago, sat down and wrote out my plans for the year, something I usually do before the new year begins.I know January is a shit time to try to start anything. Winter is the sleeping season. Spring is the season for starting new growth. That’s the time of year when everything wakes up and becomes alive with color. This is also the time of year where my calendar fills up with work tasks and social things and end of school events and doctor appointments and vet appointments. It is the time of year when I look out into my messy backyard and try to figure out when I’m going to have enough time and energy to clean up branches and leaves. Maybe even plant something. This year though, reintegration from hibernating is a struggle. The fog of sleep is not so easily shaken off and I am a groggy bear. What I need is to move past groggy bear and straight onto angry bear.

I have a feeling that my inner angry bear could kick my guilt monster’s ass.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

A list of gratitude for this week:

• Michael went to the DMV for the new car tag so I wouldn’t have to.

• He also cleaned the bathroom yesterday.

• We came back to Kansas City and the tulips have just started to bud out along with the trees.

• We are no longer eating foods that are some shade of brown. I am cramming spinach into every meal.

• I paired down a big box of photos into a little box of photos.

• I made plans for fun things like breakfast with friends and roller skating.

• The cat was right here when got home and we didn’t have to wait a couple of days for him to show himself.

• The geese are back that laid eggs outside my cubicle window last year. There were three eggs when I left last week and now there are five and mother goose is sitting on them, patiently waiting.

• I discovered pictures of my teenage brother pushing toddler me around on the vacuum cleaner, which I believed was the most fun. His birthday is tomorrow and I’m pretty grateful he’s still here and allows me to push him around and tell him what to do.

THE ARCHIVES

She asked me if I had gotten married. My mother. She has our names and phone numbers written on a piece of paper, taped to her wall above her phone. My sister took away the smart phone months ago, replacing it with a land line. The smart phone became too much to deal with. Mom was answering spam calls, becoming agitated by the telemarketers telling her she owed money. So the phone went away. I was having breakfast with Mom when she asked me about getting married. She didn’t recognize the last name written on her paper. My mother speaks in random riddles and usually I go along with it. I do my best to live in her world when I am with her, but this one threw me off my game. I explained to her that was indeed my married name, with Chris, but that I had not remarried. She seemed to take it well enough, saying something about how she was sure that I would at least tell her I was getting married. Later, as I was leaving, we passed another resident and Mom introduced me as her granddaughter.

This came at the tail end of a long two days. Michael and I along with my siblings and their spouses spent two days clearing garbage from our mother’s house. We sorted through baskets and piles of papers, taking loads and loads out to the dumpster bags. We sorted through trash looking for treasures and deciding what should stay. We’ll have an estate sale at some point, but my goal for this trip was just get rid of the garbage. Michael and I cleared two rooms the evening we arrived. It feels like garbage was the theme. We slept fitfully on mattresses on the floor and ate meals that consisted of shades of brown. We ended each day dehydrated but too tired to lift cup to our dry lips. One night, Michael found me asleep with my book open. I don’t even remember opening the book in the first place.

I brought home two boxes that are sitting in the living room, waiting for me to sort through. The boxes are filled with old photos and newspaper clippings. Among the treasures discovered was a large scroll with a handwritten family tree of my dad’s side of the family. I know close to nothing about his side, the Graham side. The little I know comes from word of mouth, mostly from a grandmother late in her life. We were not close with Dad’s family. Our visits to Mississippi were always centered around my mother’s family with only short visits any one from Dad’s family. My fingers are itching to open the scroll up and pour over the details. Michael joked about having our very own Finding Your Roots moment where we discover some famous relative. To think that scroll was found in a trash pile previously sorted by my mother as if to erase that side of my genetics. One of the items she took with her to the new home is a card, covered with old buttons and her named scrawled at the bottom. As we sat chatting, she pointed it out and said that my father must have made it. She said “I do things right and that was not made right.” while attempting to tie the ribbon that had come loose from the top of the card. Even now, she still finds faults in my dad.

Complicated feelings.

There is nothing simple about these relationships. I want to be forgiving and forgetful. She is not the mother I spent hours with as a child, watching old black and white movies or baking cookies. She’s not the same woman who would lay on the floor of her sewing room while painstakingly attempted to sew a straight seem. She hasn’t been that woman in years. Someone asked me if we were cleaning out her house because she had passed and I had to bite my tongue because as horrible it is to say it, it would be easier it that were the case. The witnessing of her mental decline is torturous. Not remembering my married name stung me more than I would have thought. What else does she not remember about that part of my life? Does she remember attending my wedding in Vegas or the beautiful reception we had at the old house? Does she remember Chris? These are all things I will never ask her.

She’s never been one for silliness or jokes, always playing the straight man to my dad’s goofball shenanigans. There are glimpses of a hint of silly in her now though. She talks about how they never let her out. She’s a flight risk and you can see the delight in her eyes when she says it. I wouldn’t be surprised to get a phone call from my sister frantic because Mom has escaped and gone missing. Just find the nearest junk sale. That’s where she’ll be, rummaging through someone’s yard sale. Yard sales are her heaven.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Elephants that roam the dry arid flat country of Kenya’s Tsavo East National Park, coat their bodies in the mineral rich mud and dirt of the land. It starts with an abandoned termite mount. The elephants rub their bodies against the tall red mounds. With consistent visits and a little rain, the mounds get worn down to the ground, eventually turning into a wallow. As more and more rain starts to show up in the season, that wallow because a delightful mud hole for the elephants to roll around in. The more they roll, the bigger the wallow gets and then the true rainy season begins. The wallow becomes a waterhole and an oasis for all the animals in the park. The elephants visit the waterhole daily and on their treks through other muddy areas, they often pick up tiny seeds on their feet. Those seeds are the dormant embryos of killifish. The embryos are released into the water where they hatch and live out very short lives before the waterhole dries up at the end of the season.

Now, I knew that killifish embryos can stay dormant for years, trapped in the dirt. I know this because we study them here as a model in aging and development. I did not know that sometimes, they travel on the feet of elephant. I learned all of this while watching a Nature show about elephants and termites, a show where I sat riveted by the images I was seeing on my TV screen. This is not an unusual practice for me. I am still awed and bowled over by the complexity of our biological world. My curiosity feels boundless.

I have been thinking a lot about a word tossed in the direction of people like me that are meant to be an insult and that word is ‘woke’. I am a woke(ish) individual and much of that wokeness comes from my curious nature and my thirst for knowledge. I want to know why. I want to know more. I want to understand. The opposite of woke is asleep. Why would I want to perpetually stay asleep and miss out on all this color and beauty and amazement? I can’t be curious while I’m asleep. I cannot live a full authentic life while asleep. When the Nazis started rounding up people to mass murder and shove into work camps, they didn’t just come for the Jews. They came for the artists, writers and scientists. They came for those who were woke. Those artists, writers and scientists who survived the Holocaust lived to create beautiful things and make life saving discoveries. They remained curious about their world. I bet if you asked them to trade in their curiosity, or wokeness, so as not to have been put through the torture of the Nazis, they would say “Never!”

Throughout history, tyrants have understood that their major enemy is an educated citizenry. Slaveholders prohibited slaves from learning to read. Nazi’s burned books. - Robert Reich

There is bravery in being awake.

The killifish embryos are dormant because they need specific conditions to live. Well, one specific condition, really; water. Once that condition is met, those little embryos do not waste time. They hatch within hours of being in the water and then reach sexual maturity in just fourteen days. They know that their days are numbered, their life only lasting about six months. So they make the most of it. The males flash their bright colors and dance for the females. Those males take a risk in their open displays. It makes them vulnerable to predation, but they do what they need to do so that life can persist. We do what we need to do so that life can persist. My openness and curiosity might put me at risk, but it is the stuff that gives me life. I am grateful for things that remind me of my true nature, like PBS and stories about tiny killifish embryos being carried on the feet of elephants.

I am an artist and a scientist. I am woke. But I also hope that I am like a newly hatched killifish and making the most of this life and my time here.

WE NEED BETTER NETS

With the release of the new Disney Snow White movie coming out this month, I’ve been thinking about why this movie bothers me. Partly, I’m annoyed by yet another remastering of this old fairy tale. I have the same feeling for the constant recycling of super heroes and as a semi-comic book nerd, they’ve not really ever gotten these stories right either. What has happened to the art of storytelling and imagination?!? Don’t answer that. I’m staring at it right now. Like I said; this is only part of my annoyance. I had to sit with it a couple of days to really pin it down and the thing that bothers me the most about Snow White is not this newer live action version. It is the story itself. 

The villain is a middle aged woman trying to hold onto her reign, while staying relevant and beautiful because no one wants to be ruled by an old ugly lady. Then she feels threatened by a younger prettier woman who just happens to be the rightful heir and proceeds to take the younger prettier woman out. Not on a date. Like, take out to die. The villain curses the young beauty by feeding her a “poisoned” apple and only the kiss from her true love, Prince Charming will release her from her curse. Wait…wasn’t Prince Charming the prince in Cinderella? 

Prince Charming is a fairy tale stock character who comes to the rescue of a damsel in distress and must engage in a quest to liberate her from an evil spell. -Wikipedia

Where do I even start? 

Let’s just dive right into the patriarchal bullshit of this story and most (if not all) of the fairytales all of us women were read to as little girls. We call it grooming today. These fairytales were designed to groom us into the shape of the kind of woman that would first of all, require a stock character’s rescue attempts and at the same time teach us that other girls were our competition. Take for example, the story of Cinderella. The stepmother went to great lengths to make sure the prince noticed her daughters. The stepsisters mutilated themselves to make that glass slipper fit! This was not about love. Everyone wants to marry the prince because a woman’s value was based on how well she could marry and how many babies she’d produce. Marrying a prince was a financial boon for the whole family. 

Okay, so just to recap here. Somewhere around ages three and four, girls are told stories that teach them to despise and be suspicious of other women and their value lies in the type of man she marries. Also, the man will save her. Let me get back to Snow White and the Evil Queen. Of course I don’t condone murder or the whole “I had no choice” argument unless in cases of assault. That’s not murder. That’s self defense. Though maybe that’s exactly how the queen felt; like she was acting in self defense. A large aspect of her villainy was her age. She went from “fairest of them all” to “you need to be careful to watch your elevens and stop squinting.” That’s a reference to those two little wrinkles that show up between the eyes when we squint. I would say, there are some people out there too young to get that reference, but since they’ve been marketing anti-aging wrinkle cream to us since we were babies, I would think most people get the reference. 

I just recently finished watching the series Younger where a forty year old woman fakes her age to be mid twenties so she could get a job in a publishing company. To be fair, the woman who is played by Sutton Foster, doesn’t look like what we think and have been told women in their forties should look. All she has to do is tweak her makeup, buy some clothes from RU21, and get a fake ID. The whole time I was watching it I kept thinking about how much this storyline bothered me but I also couldn’t look away. It was a fun soapy kind of show, but the whole time I kept saying to myself “Why the F@$# does it matter what age any of these people truly are unless they’re under age and doing something illegal?!” The short answer is that it doesn’t matter, but it aligns with the narrative of the story they've been pushing on us forever. Age matters. Older people are irrelevant and clinging to youth while younger people are flighty and irresponsible. 

This narrative is stupid. This narrative is designed to distract you. Worry about wrinkles and becoming irrelevant and just maybe you won’t notice that you make less money than the white dude with less experience. If you are too busy attacking the young woman you fear may be “after your man”, you won’t turn your focus and rage onto “your man” who lacks the integrity and wherewithal to not be persuaded to cheat on you with that young woman. The narrative is designed to pit you against other women and yourself. The New York Times morning newsletter last week had a list of things scientists learned culturally and anthropologically from the COVID pandemic and number three on the list was “Men do less”. If every woman in America read that newsletter at the same time I did, there would have been a collective loud bark of laughter echoing through this country. 

WE KNOW! 

What they really should have said for number three on the list of things learned from the pandemic is that women realized their self worth. Which is true, we looked around us at the endless piles of dishes and constant loads of laundry and the man sitting on the couch playing video games, while we wrangled a child (or children) for virtual learning at the same time trying to remain present in a work zoom meeting and came to our senses. We spoke up and demanded help. We may have to tell the man exactly what it is we need them to do, but (usually) they do it. We can’t have everything and it is a continuous daily practice. It is a practice made harder by “entertainment’s” continuation of the fairy tale narrative. Just stop retailing these antiquated stories that were designed to keep women in a patriarchal jail cell. It feels like they keep doing it in hopes of tricking a new generation of young girls.

Over the weekend, Michael and I got in a disagreement when he went into a rant about why we should stop telling kids they can be anything or do anything. He argued that this made kids disconnect from “their roles in society” and believe they’re going to be the next TikTok star or sportball star. I got so frustrated with him that I just completely stopped talking, which is his cue that I am angry. And when he pushed the subject, I put a hand up and said “You do not want to hear what I have to say about this right now.” Then I walked away. But this gave him time to mull over his own words and the flaws in his argument and put him in a place ready for listening. I told him that the problem is not that we tell kids they can be anything. The problem is that we don’t tell kids they can be anything without having to work for it. A number of kids are never told that they will need help from their communities to succeed and they will need to help the community in gratitude for their support. I have a strong suspicion that the kids in his class who are boasting about being the next big famous thing, are kids who have parents that never tell them they can be anything at all. Their encouragement is coming from what they see on their screen. Their impression of who they can be is coming from a screen. So when the patriarchy casts their media nets, there’s plenty to be caught. 

It is past time we started casting different media nets.  

THANKFUL FRIDAY

According to the Sleep Foundation, there are four stages of sleep:

• Stage one, or N1, lasts about one to seven minutes. This is the falling to sleep stage.

• Stage two, or N2, can last for ten to twenty minutes. This stage is kind of where you go during a good final relaxation. There’s a drop in body temperature, the muscles relax and the breathing and heart rate slow down. Even the brain activity slows.

• Stage three, or N3, is the deep sleep stage and typically lasts twenty to forty minutes. The researchers say that people are generally harder to wake when in this stage and experts say that this stage is critical to restorative sleep. As the night progresses, this stage shortens as the body moves into stage four, or REM.

• REM stage is the dreaming stage. Brain activity picks up but the body experiences a temporary paralysis of the muscles with the exception of the muscles that control the eyes and breathing. Normally, we don’t reach this stage until we’ve been asleep for about ninety minutes. There are two REM stages. The first one lasts only for a few minutes, while the second stage can last for an hour or a little longer. As we get older, we spend less time in REM.

I know all of this because I just looked it up.

I looked it up because I wanted a clear picture of what I am about to tell you. At the end of Daylight Savings Time last year, I would go to bed at my usual 9 o’clock hour only to wake up again around midnight. Then, I’d wake up again around 2:00 AM, go use the bathroom and drift off to sleep until about 4:30. Now my alarm is set for 5:25 AM. This is the latest I can get away with if I am going to walk Josephine before work. Waking up at 4:30 and then going back to sleep made getting up at 5:25 impossible. To be fair, if it’s cold, we’re not walking, but this doesn’t mean I couldn’t get out of bed and use this time for yoga or some sort of exercise. Instead, I drifted off to sleep again only to wake up around 6:00. Josephine traded walks for extra snuggle time and I don’t think she was mad about it. While I recognize that winter is for hibernating, that doesn’t keep me from feeling bad about my decline in physical activity.

But then Daylight Savings Time came back and you could hear a collective groan across America about our lost hour of sleep.

I am the exception. I’m probably the only person to actually thrive by losing an hour of sleep. I have been awake and ready to go every morning this week at 5:00 AM. I still wake up around midnight, but that second wake up doesn’t happen now until 3:00 or a little after. So I fall back to sleep for about two hours and wake up ready to start the day. Josephine has lost her puppy mind every morning when she sees me pull my walking shoes from the closet. The weather has been perfect, so perfect that I’ve also ridden my scooter all week and I can honestly say I have been more active this week. Yes, I know I have fallen completely like a dupe for Fake Spring.

I don’t care.

Wednesday evening around eight, I opened my mouth in a jaw cracking yawn and Michael said “I know right?!? Why are we so tired this week?” I mentioned the time change but then I said “I feel pretty good about being tired at this time of day. I should feel tired. I’ve been up since 5:00 AM doing stuff. All day long.” This is the most active I’ve been in months and I believe it’s because adding an hour screwed up my second REM stage. This has been a great week for my physical health with some slight improvements with my mental health. Sometimes I just sit and pretend that President Elon and VP Trump are not dismantling our country, that they don’t even exist and science will get funding and my gay friends can stayed married. I allow myself about ten to fifteen minutes of this where I’m not thinking about what representative or senator I have to call next or keeping track of my weekly tasks so I can email them to Elon. It’s a tiny delusion, a bit of an indulgence really, but the moment rejuvenates the activist in me.

Always there is a song playing in my head whenever I am riding the Vespa. Usually, it’s Beyonce’s All The Single Ladies. Look, I can’t explain that. It’s the beat, I guess? I just like it, but this week, the song playing in my head is one from vacation bible school.

I got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart. Where?! Down in my heart! Where?! Down in my heart! Where?! Down in my heart to stay!

We have the capacity to hold a mixed array of complicated feelings all at the same time. This week I am grateful for the reminder that I have the capacity to hold large amounts of joy while still feeling a little bit of dread. Joyful moments fill our batteries. Last week, I received a fortune cookie fortune that reads “The one who laughs, lasts.” I had a complete mental block and thought this was the dumbest fortune until I woke up the next morning and slapped my forehead. It was the comma throwing me off. Laughter, humor, joy, this is the stuff that is going to sustain us through this fight.

Those who laugh, lasts.

I'M NOT ALWAYS A SAD SACK

I am not a political writer. At least, it is not my intention to always be writing about this continuously hateful fascist President Elon Musk and VP Trump, but I also never considered myself a grief writer either. Then my husband died and now I write a lot about grief. When life gives you lemonade, make lemons…Oh, you get it. Anyway, today, because I don’t want to keep preaching to the choir, I thought I’d try something new. I thought I would write about the fun things I’ve been up to.

Michael and I spent Saturday afternoon volunteering for one of our favorite charity events, the AIDS Walk Open. For those of you who are new here. The AIDS Walk Open is a mini-golf/pub crawl. This year’s event featured fourteen bars, each with their own mini-golf hole. Teams of four can dress up in costumes (or not) and putt their way through the fourteen bars, ending at Missy B’s for the after party with winner announcements and raffle prizes. It is a full day of hilarity and fun, all for a good cause. I decided a few years ago that I am a better volunteer than a day drinker and I’ve been dragging Michael along to volunteer with me for the last few years. We make a good team. Technically, there is supposed to be a group of three at each hole but the last two years our third either showed up drunk and useless or didn’t show up at all (that was this year).

Last year, not having a third helper was not that big of a deal. Now the morning shift volunteers usually have it pretty easy. Traffic is light but steady. People have yet to reach sloppy drunk state. The afternoon crew needs to be on their toes. This year, we had more than 50% more teams than last year, meaning there were almost one hundred teams this year. My job was keeping score for each team. Michael kept score cards and teams organized. We were so busy wrangling cats that we had very little time for doing the extra stuff like selling the 50/50 raffle tickets or mulligans. Actually…we got good at selling mulligans. You only get six shots to get your ball in the hole (tee-hee). You can buy six mulligans per hole at $5 a pop. If you are flush with cash and or drunk enough, you could be convinced that you could buy your way to a win. At some point, Michael realized that I could not move from spot because I was counting the number of shots it took for each player to get the ball in the hole. His job allowed him to move through the space and keep track of teams coming in the door. He brought me a class of water and said “Drink this!” because he recognized that I was trapped with out food or water. The event has a hard stopping rule of 5:00 PM. At that time, we are supposed to close the hole to players, pack up our volunteer box of score cards and raffle tickets, and drop it off at Missy B’s. At 4:30 PM, Michael stopped accepting any more team cards. We sent people away because he still had five score cards in his hand and we had to get them through before 5:00. We were a little late, but all five teams made it through our hole (tee-hee).

Michael and I had a great time, but we’ve started thinking about next year and recruiting to build our own volunteer team. Someone to wrangle teams. Someone to count scores. Someone to judge costumes and someone to sell raffle tickets (I’m looking at you Jenn). After we dropped off our box with officials at Missy B’s, Michael and drove down the street to get dinner. As we sat down for the first time in the last four hours, we each ordered a beer. Then we started talking about the previous years of this event. I told Michael that Missy B’s is usually the first or the last hole for teams. Then I said “I’ve never made it to Missy B’s in time to play that hole.” I’ve never even seen it. Michael has participated with me at least once as a playing team member and didn’t even know there was mini-golf hole at Missy B’s. He just thought that this was the place everyone went afterwards because it’s the iconic LGTBQ+ bar/club in KCMO. I have never successfully hit all the mini-golf/ bars before the closing at 5:00. Not because I’m too drunk (but for sure real tipsy) but because we always just ran out of time. There was that one time where my drink of choice was a Bloody Mary and I reviewed each bar through out the day. The best one of the day was from Stagecoach Dave’s, the diviest dive bar in Westport. The bartender stuck her whole arm into giant olive jar, grabbed a fist full of olives and threw them in the cup. It was traumatizing to watch, but damn delicious.

That day turned me off Bloody Mary’s for a reasonably long time, understandably.

I only took two pictures on Saturday and they were taken right at the beginning. We had about twenty minutes of a lull between team when we first arrived, but after that we were slammed with teams. I didn’t have time to take pictures. I didn’t have time to even look at my phone to check messages or see a stupid news headline. For four whole hours, Michael and I were completely focused with something other than a screen in front of our faces. And it was really great.

It’s habit I’d like to get into, Saturdays without screens.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Sometime between Tuesday and Wednesday, while a blizzard raged outside, I dreamed of tornadoes. In the dream, I stepped out the front door to look around and then the tornado sirens went off. I looked to the west and could clearly see a sizable tornado making its way in my direction. I hurried back inside and told Michael “We need to go to the basement right now.” I scooped up Josephine and we all scrambled down the rickety basement steps. Michael said “I don’t understand. I didn’t hear the sirens.” I replied “I only heard them for a beat and I don’t know why they’re not still sounding the alarm.” We watched through the basement window (that doesn’t really exist) as the tornado danced into our front yard. It then skirted between our house and the neighbor’s to the east of us. We continued to watch the tornado move along through backyards and between houses, luckily leaving people’s homes undamaged.

This dream happened while the wind outside didn’t as much howl as it did roar. It almost sounded like waves from an angry sea crashing onto a beach. Occasionally there would be a loud thump or thud of something being knocked over or very likely a transformer blowing. Our power flickered off long enough at some point during the night to require the time to be reset on the stove. When I peaked out a window, I could see a number of small tree branches littering the backyard. Even though there was very little snow accumulation, school ended up being closed Wednesday mostly because of power outages across the metro. The roads were icy in patches, worse for side streets as per usual, but I had no trouble making my way to work. We didn’t even bother shoveling the driveway. At lunch time, I stood waiting for the elevator with one of our postdocs and their five year old. The child was literally vibrating with pent up energy and I asked about his snow day. The postdoc, being very patient but also having a look of worn depleted mom, said “I hope it’s the last one.”

Maybe this is the last snow storm for the year.

Probably not.

In the fourteen years since moving here I have never seen a tornado. I have only twice looked up at the sky and said “Yeah….the weather person might be right about this. We should go to the basement.” As if I know more than the weather people and in someways I just might. KCMO is a vast area of various terrain. When they say there’s “tornadic activity” in the KCMO area they’re talking about the flat areas near the Kansas side. Tornados prefer to travel across flat lands. My house sits on the nubby hill side of town, the part where everything begins to slope towards our great river. Not that this means tornados are not possible in my neighborhood, just less likely. And if I don’t know what a wall cloud looks like or the sky signs for a tornado by now, then I never will and quite possible will have to relinquish the part of my identity that was born and raised in Tornado Alley.

Technically it is still winter. Yet, here I am dreaming about spring time tornados in places not normally seen. I am sure it is a bit of wishful thinking. There’s always a bit of exhilaration at the first sight of the tulip greens poking up out of the ground even while knowing we will see more snow before they actually bloom. I suspect this dream has less to do about weather than it is a commentary of current events. We’re all hiding in basements from a real life tornado causing minimal damage to maximum destruction as it weaves it’s way through our communities, taking away jobs and scholarships, building an economic structure that will force a choice between paying for healthcare or paying the rent. This tornado might spare my house, but not the houses of our LGBTQ+ families or nonwhite Americans.

When I say ‘spare’, I mean not completely destroyed. I still stand to lose my job and my retirement money due to cuts in federal funding for science. Funds for my work place are also linked to an investment company. If the investment company isn’t doing well, we don’t do well. The tariff situation is going to make it difficult for the investment company because no one is thinking about investing money when they’re just trying to pay the bills. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out ways to communicate with those who use the phrase “respectfully disagree”. This would be easier if the disagreement was over pizza toppings and not the value of human lives. The word ‘respectful’ is subjective and often employed in arguments where the user has little constructive, factual or relevant words to aid in their argument. It is a card thrown when the card holder doesn’t want to listen. It is used by people who have enough privilege to allow them to not question their government or the ‘news’ they are watching. This privilege also allows for a lack of empathy towards those impacted by this administrations decisions.

I do not have the luxury of such privilege.

Once as a child, I stared directly at a tornado as it traveled feets away from the family camper. I did not scream or flinch. I just stood still, pinned to the trailer by my mother’s arm. I am strong and brave. I am tenacious and I’ve learned how pace myself in a fight. I’m finding great joy finding little ways to mess with the methods of destruction being implemented by this tornado. Amani sent me a link this week were I can provide a description of discrimination by the administration. I tried writing a whole paragraph but the form errored. So I’ve been entering one sentence at a time and submitting it. This feels so much more satisfying and fun then an all at once thing. Whenever I’m feeling a little down, I go on over to The Department of Education , and type in ‘White House’ for my school with the zip code (20500) and then leave a sentence about the discriminatory practices committed by this administration. I’m still sending Elon my weekly updates. I know it’s not a big change, but I know it’s annoying for the person on the other end. I am one gnat, but I know I’ve generated more gnats by sharing my little micro aggressions. I’ve seen what happens when someone gets swarmed by gnats with the running and waving, flailing arms. It drives a person crazy.

This post doesn’t really sound like much of a gratitude post, but maybe if you read between words you can see it. I am grateful for the small things and I am grateful for the parts of me that have no fear. I am grateful for dreams that remind me that there is growth from destruction. I am grateful for the tiny bit of hope that we can rebuild, better and stronger. I am grateful for those who have joined the gnat army.

THE STORY OF YOUR DRUGS

In 2007, a paper from Dr. Daniel Drucker’s lab was published in The Journal of Clinical Investigation titled The role of gut hormones in glucose homeostasis. The paper reviews the actions of gut hormones that regulate glucose levels and the discovery of one hormone in particular, a glucagon-like peptide-1 or GPL1. A little further back in time, Dr. John Eng, an endocrinologist at the Veterans Administration Center in the Bronx, released a paper about Exendin-4. Dr. Eng had been looking into identifying new hormones and heard about certain snake and lizard venoms that produced an enlargement of the pancreas. The pancreas is where our bodies produce insulin and Dr. Eng was curious. What if this could be useful in treating diabetes? One of those hormones is Exendin-4.

Exendin-4 turned out to be very similar to GLP1. Then, around the same time Dr. Eng was playing around with Exendin-4, Dr. Josephine Egan, in collaboration with Amylin Pharmaceuticals, found that injecting diabetic mice daily with Exendin-4 stabilized their blood sugar levels. Several trials later, gave us Ozempic. All from a peptide from gila monster venom and patented by Dr. Eng. This is just one of an infinite number of examples of how basic scientific research leads to big developments in fighting diseases. It is also the kind of research not possible without federal funding. Early studies in Ro ribonucleoproteins by Dr. Judith James gave birth to the Rheumatology Research Center at the Oklahoma Medical Research Foundation. This center currently has a long list of clinical trials going, because of federally funded basic research.

Right there, in my home state! 

This time every year, an independent outside group of scientists gather together at the FDA to compare and collaborate on data for developing the flu vaccine. Flu viruses change every year either through antigenic drift where the virus’s genes mutate or through antigenic shift where two different flu strains swap genetic material. Through sequencing the most potent flu strains, scientists can predict what the sequence will be in the next flu strain and then vaccines are designed around those predictions. This meeting determines the effectiveness and safety of the flu vaccine you will receive in the Fall. That meeting has been cancelled this year. NPR talked to one of the vaccine experts on the committee, Dr. Paul Offit.

I think there's a value in having an independent committee that looks at the data, holds it to a very high standard. That's a process that makes sure that we can have the best science behind the decisions we make. - Dr. Paul Offit.

A similar meeting has also been cancelled at the CDC. This is going to result in a large delay in making the vaccine for this year’s flu and producing enough to ensure the safety of the public. This is what happens when we freeze money for science and force massive blind layoffs of Federal employees. I selfishly have chosen to highlight a small portion of the destruction forced by the DOGE, mainly because there is so much happening right now. I only have so much energy, but here is the current list of agencies where federal employees are being fired:

• Department of Education (includes the Federal Student Aid office)

• Department of Homeland Security (half of those cuts are in the Federal Emergency Management Agency- FEMA, including our Coast Guard)

• Department of Energy (including the National Nuclear Security Administration)

• United States Agency for International Development

• Consumer Financial Protection Bureau

• Department of Veterans Affairs

• Department of Agriculture (including cuts the US Forest Service- wildfire response and prevention)

• Environmental Protection Agency

• Department of Health and Human Services, Department of Interior (our National Parks)

• Office of Personnel Management (Human resources for the government)

• General Services Administration

• Small Business Administration

• Internal Revenue Service

• Department of Defense.

I am a middle class tax bracket citizen. I have required and received help and or aid in some form from more than half of these agencies. I relied on information from HUD and the first time home buyer benefits when I purchased my house. My family receives benefits from the Gold Star Family program, a federally funded program. I have a lifetime pass to the National Parks through this program. I would not have been able to pay for graduate school without federal loans. Chris would not have been able to pay for any of his college education without federal funding. This is just a drop in the bucket. I can assure you that we all have benefitted from federal programs and I don’t even mind paying federal taxes to contribute to the benefits. I do mind that so much of the federal tax burden lands on the middle class and poor. Trump’s new tax proposal is set to increase my federal taxes by $1,500 while 4% of the country who makes almost one million a year gets a tax cut of $7,000. Want to get really mad? Check out this graph. Did the 77,284,118 people who voted for Trump know he was going to raise their taxes by fifteen hundred dollars? What about their representatives? Did they willingly support candidates who refuse to stand up to a tyrant and allow for an increase in their taxes? Is abortion and the removal of trans rights really worth this tax increase to them? 

After about my third gin and tonic Saturday night, I looked at Michael and said “I’m just so angry all the time and so much of it is directed at things I have no control over.” I can’t fix what’s happening. I can’t reason with those who support this fascist. This administration is by far not making America great, but they are doing a fine job of making it harder to be an American. I know that when I write these entries, the only people reading are those already part of the choir. Michael reminded me that we just keep doing what we’ve been doing. As soon as the Ivanhoe Farmers Market opens, we’ll buy produce there and we will be very mindful of how and where we spend our money. We have a local election in April. We will vote to improve Kansas City schools. I will continue to send money for aid to Ukraine and Palestinians. I will continue to send my weekly accomplishment list to the Nazi. I keep preaching to the choir.

And I will remember that this battle is going to be a long haul. So I need to pace myself and give myself some grace.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Let’s face it, new friends after a certain age is not an easy find. When Chris and I moved here, we both felt the isolation of our new unknown. We had left all of our closest people in Oklahoma, people we met with for meals or coffee at least once a week. Sure, we had the internet and the ability to chat with those people daily, but it just wasn’t the same as face to face time. And many (if not all) of those nearest and dearest are friends we made during our college years. Now we found ourselves in a quandary of how to meet new people in a town you are unfamiliar with when you are past the age of hanging out in bars, not church goers, and not in school. Chris and I were very happy with each other’s company, but we knew that making new friends was going to be important in the making of our new home.

Then Chris died.

I have a handful of friends that I met through Heather and Terry and I love them even though I hardly get a chance to see them. They all have lives that are bit more fabulous than my own with bedtimes after nine PM. I recognized that I needed at least one friend my own age with a similar bedtime, someone who would hang upside down in hammocks with me or go roller skating. I started my search for new friends by joining a meet-up social club. I joined two, actually. One was a photography group. I met with them once when they all gathered for a lunch at a Mediterranean place and the topic of discussion around the table was everything but photography. I was one of two women at the table and completely ignored after someone asked me what I do for a living. The guy at the head of the table kept a suspicious eye on me the whole time. That group didn’t really seem like a good fit. The other group was a non-themed group consisting of members of various ages who liked to visit museums and then go bar hoping. We were all a bit socially awkward with each other and I never ended up swapping contact information with anyone. At this point I was also deep into the world of online dating. Juggling new potential lovers and making new friends became a lot.

I stopped juggling.

I just stopped looking and immersed myself into doing the things I liked doing. I am one of those people who is happy to sit alone at dinner with a glass of wine and book or journal. I am also happy taking myself to a yoga class even if I don’t know anyone else there. Movies by yourself is like a vacation. I grew very comfortable with spending time with just myself as company. There’s always that saying floating around about finding the thing once you stop looking for the thing. This is basically what happened. I met Michael, but romantic partners are not always the friend you can drag to the roller rink or a yoga class. So, I went to camp and made those kinds of friends. All without looking or trying to fit in with the crowd. I’m pretty sure this came about because of all the time I had spent alone.

I have always felt that most (if not all) of those nearest and dearest people mentioned above are my nearest and dearest because of Chris. For probably a bit too long, I felt that there was no way I could have those people in my life if it were not for him. I was not smart enough on my own or charismatic or brilliant or funny enough. Good God, Chris was funny and I rode his shirttails. I know now that this simply is not true. It was never true. I remember our friend Tiffany saying once years ago about the day we all met; she said something about what she remembers most was how I walked right up to her and introduced myself and shook her hand. I pulled her into our flock. I was not just an accessory for Chris. We were partners in the true sense of the word and we were equally good at collecting interesting people.

I have a newish group of women friends and we went to an area roller rink for adult skate night earlier this week. We are a group of various ages though I’m sure I’m the oldest and we are also a group of various skating experience. I made an even newer friend (friend of a friend) at the rink who let me pester her about skates and wheels and I learned soooo much. When we had skated ourselves to exhaustion, Jenn drove us all to Andy’s Custard. It was finally just tolerable enough for us all to stand outside eating our treats and being ridiculous. Which we were. I have a whole wonderful series of photos of Lauren jumping into a picture I was I attempting to take. We laughed so much that I was sore the next day, though that could also be partly from skating. We made a pact over custard treats that adult skate night would be a regular thing and going on the calendar at least once a month. And I know it sounds so fucking stupid, but in this moment, not just surrounded but included by this smart and hilarious group, I realized that I am like-able.

I’m good enough. I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me. -Stuart Smalley

In our late night confessions during Chris’s last few weeks, his only concern for me was that I would try to do too much on my own. This is not an unreasonable concern. Michael has the same concern because I will totally believe that I can lift the far too heavy thing or fix the thing I have no idea even works. I like to remind Michael that I have taken apart the lawnmower, replaced a belt and put it all back together without losing any fingers or needing to buy a new mower. I appreciate their concern, but I more capable than either of them realize. There was no discussions with Chris about the possibility of me moving back to Oklahoma or that for some reason I would be without a support system here in KCMO. He didn’t mention any of that because he knew what I didn’t. He knew that people would love me and just be there and that I would have no problems building a Kansas City family. It would have been nice if he’d told me that, but I also appreciate the time I spent learning all of this on my own.

Girls’ night out with roller skating, ice cream and hilarity was a balm for this soul that has been battered by winter and current events.

ACCOMPLISHED

I have a dear friend who works in DC in a federal capacity and he has been sharing what has been happening in his office since the new administration took over. It’s as if they are intentionally making it a more hostile working environment each day because they would rather people quite than to fire them all. My friend’s most recent post was an email from Elon Musk and the HR department stating that all employees must reply to their email with approximately five bullets of what you accomplished last week. If the email is not sent in by 11:59EST Monday the 24th, you should expect to be fired.

Well…the email address got out into the world and the internet is having a heyday, sending emails of accomplishments to hr@opm.gov. People have been emailing in their own bullet point lists of accomplishments and when I heard this, I laughed out loud at what a delightful form protest this is. IT’s like the very definition of joyful protest. So last night, I sat down and compiled my own email of accomplishments:

In the past week, I have successfully completed an over night time lapse of Zika virus infected Hela cells, troubleshot issues with the Phenix screening microscope and completed laser power checks on all microscopes. I trained a new user on the slide scanner and then imaged a batch of slides on the Nikon spinning disk. Those images were then processed for further analysis.

On a personal note, I maintained the health of my sourdough starter. I also completed section five on French lessons with Duolingo. I swept, vacuumed and mopped. Food was prepped for weeknight meals and I brushed my teeth.

I hope this satisfies the five accomplishments requirement for the week. I look forward to updating this again for the next week.
Thank you,
Cindy Maddera

I sent the email and then realized that I forgot to mention that I had also trimmed my toenails, which feels like a pretty good personal accomplishment. This was my only regret here because the minute I hit the little send button, I felt giddy and elated. First of all, this is such an easy protest against that fascist idiot, but after sitting down and thinking about the things I did accomplish last week, I felt pretty dang good about myself. Far too often, I get to an end of a week (the actual end, like Sunday night knowing I have to start all over again the next day) and I feel like I’ve accomplished very little. Except now I’m realizing that I could have added so much more to that accomplishments email.

I didn’t mention that I troubleshot issues with my windshield washer. I’ve been driving practically blind most of all last week because every time I hit the washer button, nothing would come out. And yes, for the jerk face in the back, I made sure I had windshield washer fluid. What I could not determine on my own was if the pump for the washer was actually running. I couldn’t hear it from inside the vehicle and needed Michael to stick his head under the hood while I engaged the washer. Of course, this is when the washer miraculously started working again. We believe it had something to do with above freezing temps and washer fluid designed for warmer climate. I’m still going to say that we fixed the windshield washer and I learned a whole lot about the inside of my car. Like how the car was low on brake fluid. And that feels a little more important than the windshield washer.

The more I think about it, them more accomplishments I can come up with and I can’t wait to send in my report for this current week. For the first time this year, I feel motivated and this is such a lovely way to start out the week. I spend a lot of time on Sundays preparing for the week ahead. I chop veggies for the week. We start the week with clean floors and organized lunches. Now I feel like I’ve discovered one more thing to add to my list for preparing for a week. Each Sunday evening, I’m going to sit down and compile my five bullet points of accomplishments, maybe even add more than five, and then I’m going to send that email off to Elon.

In case you want to email Elon about your accomplishments, you can do so at hr@opm.gov.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I started following Ella Emhoff last year partly because I think she helps me to stay in touch with what the young arthouse club is into these days. They are also very cool and the kind of young person I’d want to hang out with, meet for coffee and discuss needle point. They recently posted a thread in substack about writing down every positive and negative feeling you have each day and this reminded me of the complaint free bracelet I had to wear as an exercise during yoga teacher training. The idea of the bracelet was that you moved it from one wrist to the other every time you voiced a complaint. The goal was to not have to move the bracelet. The exercise for yoga teacher training was to wear the bracelet for one week and then write about your experience. This meant wearing the bracelet outside of our yoga space and into our regularly scheduled lives. The whole exercise inspired Chris to invest in a bracelet and then he bought a whole bunch of them to hand out to our friends.

Here is what we learned from that one week. We learned that we complain a lot about tiny insignificant shit. I’m not going to say that complaining is bad. Complaints are valid, but this exercise taught us what complaints are truly valid enough to be voiced. Am I whining or is this something I can constructively complain about to be fixed? It also helped us communicate our wants and needs to each other in a kind and thoughtful way so as not to hurt feelings. The bracelet taught me to really pause before voicing my complaint. In that pause, I would ask myself “Am I complaining about a problem of my own making? Is this something I have the ability to fix?”. Everything in life is a choice and this pause allowed me to choose my reaction to a problem. I abandoned the bracelet years ago, but every once in a while I pull it out of my jewelry box to wear for a day as a reminder.

It might be time to wear that bracelet again.

At the end of my yoga class this week, a student that only shows up once in a while to my class remarked on how much she really needed my class that day. She said “What is happening?! Wildfires and snowstorms and flooding and the current administration firing so many people. This year isn’t getting off to a good start.” But for forty five minutes, I had just provided space for her to set all of those thoughts aside and focus only on her physical well being. I like to think of it as nourishment or a moment of pause before reactions. I am providing sustenance to power us through future difficulties. Because, no, this year has not started out well and has created large messes that is forcing our communities to clean up and rebuild.

Just this week, the USDA rescinded grant money to the Ivanhoe Neighborhood Council, a local non-for-profit neighborhood improvement organizations who provides fresh vegetables and produce among other benefits to a low income area of Kansas City. A lot of that produce comes from urban growers and the majority demographic of the neighborhood is black. This is considered to be a DEI project by the Trump administration. These cuts and funding freezes are also having a hard hitting effect on rural farmers. Any farmer who signed up for a project supported by the USDA that pays farmers for planting up to 500 acres of cover crop are not getting their reimbursement money. This amounts to a $16,000-$17,000 dollar loss for each farmer. These are the people feeding this country and these are just small blips of horrors committed by this administration in this week alone.

My complaints against this administration are for problems not of my making and ones that I can do little to solve. I use the 5 Calls app daily to constructively voice my complaints and wishes. I make sure I know what is on the ballot and how those issues will impact my neighborhood. Then I make sure to vote at EVERY opportunity. Starting in May, my summer vegetables will come from local urban farms purchased at the Ivanhoe Farmers Market so that my dollars can benefit my community. I canceled my Amazon unlimited books subscription so that I can be more supportive of my local library and small business book shops. It is easy to get overwhelmed right now, but there are things we can do. Maybe you have a friend who recently lost their job with the National Parks Service. Hire them for a day to give you a tour of a park or invite them over for a meal. Maybe you have a friend who’s a veteran and struggling. They no longer have a crisis hotline to help them in times of need. Invite them out for coffee and a chat and just be a listener for them. Buy produce from local growers. Start building a secret room for hiding your LGTBQ+ friends when the time comes. Learn how to safely stock pile and administer the abortion pill.

These small acts of good make for bigger impacts that any of us can imagine. I am grateful that I have the ability to do small acts of good.

AM I HUNGRY?

Am I the only one around here that’s struggling to keep up with their usual schedule? I’ll have a few days where I feel like I am on track and then there will be a Monday holiday or a snow day, and it al goes to Hell in a hand basket. And any hand basket I own, which is one…I own one actual hand basket, right now is full of fire and brimstone. I take zero advantage of those days when I am not at work. In fact, I’m down right lazy, spending hours on the couch watching nonsense TV (has anyone watched Younger? I have love and hate feelings but I’ve made it to season 5). Then once I’m at work, I am AT WORK, scrambling to catch up on the things I missed while I was out. I’ve read some other musings on struggling to be motivated in tackling New Year resolutions. I’ve writing encouraging comments of having grace and going easy on yourself, which is really easy for me to type out for someone other than myself.

Tuesday morning, I peeled my body out of bed and went through my usual routine of getting ready for work. I did this almost forty five minutes earlier than usual because Michael’s school had declared Tuesday a snow day. This also meant that I had to go out and clean off my car and shovel the driveway. The snow was light and powdery, like sugar which made for easy shoveling. Basically I just pushed the shovel across the driveway from one side to the next while my car warmed up. I slowly drove my car to work on white roads. It wasn’t the worse conditions I’ve driven in, but it wasn’t great. It turned out that only me and one other person in my department had not marked themselves as “working from home” on the calendar. I did not mind. I have been trying to find time to do laser power checks on our microscopes for weeks and I keep having to reschedule because of snow or holiday or the microscope’s schedule is booked. The schedules for the microscopes on Tuesday was wide open. I managed to get a number of things accomplished and even spent an hour on my yoga mat.

The problem would be my drive home.

A steady shower of white sugar fell from the sky all afternoon. Every time I looked out my desk window, the world outside resembled a recently shaken snow globe. Every twenty minutes or so, the groundsmen in two golf cart sized snowplows would plow around the circle drive and the driveway into the parking garage. Traffic remained light to nonexistent. I know I should not have risked the drive into work, but the thought of yet another day stuck inside my tiny house was more than I could bear. One of the things that make my relationship work with Michael is that we don’t spend all day every day together. The pandemic nearly ended us or me in prison for murder. I need brain space or I get twitchy and stabby. There is something to be said about my need for this brain space if I am willing to drive through a blizzard.

I can’t handle another winter.

I say this every year. Chris and I moved here at the end of February but the weather was tolerable. We could see that this was a place that had seen snow. Piles of it were shoved into corners of parking lots, but it did not snow again after our move. The winter Chris died we only saw a dusting of snow, but the winter a year later required shoveling. This was when I was able to barely squeeze my Kia Soul into the garage which left the full length of my long driveway for me to clear all by myself. I did it! And I was so proud of myself! I woke up the next morning sore and achy but ready to go to work. Except the snowplow had blocked the end of my driveway with a two foot tall icy slush wall. And that was the year I started saying that I could not handle another winter. Yet I have. Over and over again. This year in particular feels worse and I keep getting bombarded with things regarding my favorite city where I know it is warmer. Damn the hurricane seasons. I’d take a hurricane over minus degrees. Michael just shakes his head when I mention it because the summers would be unbearable for him. Also, right now is a terrible time for a scientist to find a job (psst…Federal Funding cuts means unemployment rates increase for a whole lot of Americans).

Each day I keep reminding myself that I am not stalled out or spinning wheels going no where. I am doing things. I am no longer waiting for my kitchen sink to look gross before giving it a scrub. I’m mopping the floors once a week instead of twice a year or whenever I could no longer stand the overlaying paw print pattern on the hardwood floors. My house is clean and I have even managed to get oils for the diffuser my brother and sister-in-law gave me for my birthday. My house is clean and smells like springtime mountain air. All this snow shoveling is making me stronger. It combines cardio with weight training. People pay money for those kinds of workouts. Who cares if it took me more than hour this morning for my toes and finger tips to thaw enough to get the feeling back into them?

No, but seriously…I really don’t think I can handle another winter.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Sometime last month I noticed that the enamel on my Tiffany’s Vespa charm was about to come off. So, Michael and I took it into Tiffany’s for repair. The manager was his usual wonderfully charming self and worried that my charm could not be fixed. He said that not all of them were repairable which is unfortunate because they don’t make that charm any more. In fact, I purchased the last one that the Kansas City store had in stock. He did some checking and came back to me with a sigh of relief. It could be repaired and then we started to fill out the paperwork to send it off to Tiffany’s New York for repairs and cleaning. I picked it up yesterday and squealed with delight as I placed it back on my chain that also holds Chris’s wedding band.

They belong together.

I got in my car today to drive to work and the sounds from the radio alerted me that today is Valentine’s Day. I’ve fully transitioned over into my mom’s car. That happened unexpectedly this week and Michael has been doing little things to make the transition more appealing to me, like programming the radio with my usual radio stations. So the Bridge was talking about Valentine’s Day and how this is their day to raise money and bring awareness to organ donation. Right away a woman started telling her story of the tragic death of her husband and I made the decision to change the channel. I flipped it over to NPR figuring that even the news would be better than what was happening on the Bridge. Except I flipped it to NPR just in time for today’s Story Core.

When the Story Core series started on NPR, Chris and I immediately changed the name to Story Cry. Every Friday morning as we drove to work together, a Story Core would start playing and Chris and I would start crying. Today’s Story Core, Love and taxidermy: The story of Bud and Jackie Jones, turned me into a snotty mess. Bud and Jackie had been married over 65 years and after telling their story, The Story Core producers brought Jackie and her daughter back to talk about how life has been since Bud passed away last year. They both said the usual things about missing him, but Jackie said things that I have also said. Our relationships and our loves were very similar in emotion.

When I got to work, I sent a text to Michael asking him if he had heard the morning Story Core, knowing he usually had NPR playing on his way to work and we had left the house at the same time. He replied with the crying face emoji and an “I love you”. I replied back with “Thank you for tolerating me.” because I know I’m demanding and at times obstinate. I know that it can’t be easy for him to share me with a dead man, yet he does it. Then he said this:

You get to love two men that will love you forever. That has to count for something.

I am very lucky. And this will probably be as close as we get to sending Valentine’s to one another.

This week has been filled with reminders of how fortunate Michael and I are. His truck brakes failed, like FAILED, on his way to work Tuesday. He managed to safely park the truck in a parking lot, get a tow truck to take the truck into the repair shop that had just finished putting new tires on Mom’s car (I’ve got to come up with a new name!) and drive that car into work. Not only are we fortunate enough to have a ‘spare’ vehicle, we can take the financial hit of the repairs. It just eats into the Paris fund, but I have no problem with putting beans on the menu for multiple days in a week. We’ve had a few unexpected nickel and dime moments recently and each time we’ve found ourselves dolling out money for the unexpected, Michael has said “We’re going to Paris no matter what!”

This week in Duolingo I learned Je vais a Paris.

Nous allons a Paris.

MY UTOPIA

Recently, as in just last week recently, I had to explain to Michael that sperm doesn’t contain all of the DNA to start a life form. I got full on text book with him, using words like oocyte and haploids but it wasn’t until I showed him an actual picture of what an oocyte looks like before fertilization and after that it finally made sense to him. I would consider Michael to be a ‘smart’ person. He teaches math, knows a bunch of math and very knowledgable about history. This subject of oocyte vs zygote was probably glossed over in any and all of the biology courses he encountered. It just wasn’t discussed in details that would cause someone to remember. Particularly those individuals who do not have biological science minds. Most middle school boys lose all focus as soon as the word ‘sperm’ is uttered and the rest is a lesson of holding in giggles.

The lesson one gets in class, very much like the one I gave Michael, is a simplified description of a very complicated situation. I mean, I didn’t even mention mitochondrial DNA or ribosomal RNA or histones or chromosome structures or all the other protein interactions involved. I honestly do not expect a lot of people to know about these things or understand it. But I do expect that the people making laws that govern reproduction and reproductive health to know just as much as, if not more than, I do on the subject. I expect that the person in charge of federal grant funding for basic biomedical research to know even more than I do on this subject and many others.

Any basic biological research regarding women’s health and reproduction have all been placed on grant funding holds because they fall into the DEI category. This means that any research benefiting women’s health will not receive funding. We will not be being seeing new and innovative treatments or screenings for breast cancer or ovarian cancer or cervical cancer or anything related to the word ‘vagina’. So ladies, if you are frustrated now with the lack of knowledge regarding perimenopause or the antiquated boob smash we have to endure every year, I suggest you start calling your senators and representatives. Many of us are all aware of how we have to advocate with our healthcare providers for our own health. Many of us have gone from doctor to doctor to doctor just trying to get one of them to listen to our symptoms and needs.

We are now going to have to work harder for own health.

DEI stands for diversity, equity and inclusion. So when you say you’re against DEI, just say you are against diversity, that you strongly disagree with equality and inclusion. Just say that you don’t care about reproductive health or basic medical research that could save the life of your mother, sister, niece, yourself. Don’t just say abbreviation. Make it very clear and just say “I don’t agree with diversity, equity or inclusion.” Vice President JD Vance received a scholarship to attend Yale. It was a scholarship for people who are the first generation to attend college and who live below a certain income level. JD Vance used a DEI scholarship to gain an education. Maybe some federal funding will get shuttled over to researching how this hypocrisy makes sense.

Now I know that I’m preaching to a choir, but just maybe one person who didn’t really think things through before, sees that what is happening with our Federal Government is going to make their lives a little bit, probably a lot, less and join the fight to end this fascism.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Yesterday was Chris’s birthday and for some reason, my phone calendar has this listed multiple times as all day events. One of them is not even correct. It reads “Chris Maddera’s 43rd Birthday”. If Chris were alive today, we would be celebrating his fifty fourth birthday. I would probably be making everything jambalaya, a dish I have not made since the last birthday he was alive. There was a moment yesterday when I thought I’d get through the day unscathed, but that didn’t happen. After a vigorous and intense personal yoga practice (I’m up to 30 sun salutations and that may be my limit because of time), I settled myself down for a much earned savasana and immediately started sobbing. Grief gives zero shits about your savasana or time and space. This is the second time in the last six days where grief has rolled up to sucker punch me in the gut. The first time got me sobbing in my car in the Trader Joe’s parking lot. That was less about Chris and more about my mom and her mental struggles.

Grief is an onion. Cut into any layer of it and it’s still going release syn-propanethial-S-oxide gas.

There is no antidote for syn-propanethial-S-oxide, but you can reduce your reaction to it in a number of ways. You can wear goggles and use a very sharp knife. You can also chill or freeze the onion. Bottom line is that you can make it so that you cry a little less, but not completely. This is grief plus time. As each year passes, I cry a little bit less. I feel the string between us getting longer and longer and I just want to wind it up tight around my finger to shorten the distance. I may cry less, but I don’t miss him less or think about him less. Now more than ever. I mean can you imagine what Chris would be writing and doing in the midst of this current administration?!? He’d be inciting our anger and disgust, handing out the pitchforks, all while making us laugh uncontrollably over the ridiculousness of it all.

Look, I stared at a blank page for a really long time trying dig up something for today’s gratitude posting and instead I told you about Chris’s birthday and my dumb calendar. How do you find gratitude in the face of such great loss? Better yet, how do you find gratitude in the face of such great loss without it sounding trite or contrived? The answer is that you don’t. I can list off a half dozen things of gratitude from this week for you right now and every single one is trite and contrived. I’m grateful for the sunshine. I’m grateful for that one day this week it was warm enough when I go home from work that I could take Josephine for a short walk. She was so excited about it that she pooped four times. I am grateful that mom is being cared for and that I don’t have to do it. I am grateful for the friends in my life who continuously have my back and provide me with support.

Trite or contrived gratitude, to me, is just an act of honing the practice. It’s not any different from saying grace before a meal and being thankful for the food on the table. Of course you are thankful for your food. Unless the meal before you is your least favorite food. When I was a child, my heart would sink every time I ran down the stairs for breakfast and discovered Mom had made French toast. I hated Mom’s French toast. It was always soggy and to this day I do not ever order it. That’s beside the point. I was still grateful to have food and a mom who made sure I had breakfast every morning. I found that even the simplest, most obvious things to be grateful for makes the hard, painful stuff like grief a little easier to handle.

It’s like putting on goggles before cutting up that onion.

IN DEFENSE

I rarely take the hook, but there was something about a particular posting that I couldn’t resist commenting on. A facebook “friend” (yes, I’m still there. I have reasons) posted about the Grammys and the unbelievable audacity to award Beyonce with a Grammy for Best Country Album. The person already had three comments on the post all along the lines of “What is the world coming to?!” So I chimed in my two cents.

Beyonce's country album is great and totally deserving. You can really hear the influences of early country music and gospel in many of the songs. The grammy was intended for "country album" not "Country artist". So she fit well in that category. Growing up when country music was dominated by white men singing about drinking whiskey and cheating on their wives, it's refreshing to hear some diversity.

This comment is completely heartfelt. I am not a ‘woke’ person when it comes to music. I tend to listen to a playlist of the same artists ranging from Neko Case to First Aid Kit, I throw in the occasional Andrew Bird and the National, and have stations that reflect these artists. But I feel it is important to broaden my listening because it’s like traveling to new places. It opens my ears up to new sounds and ideas. It is an empathy builder. Often times, I throw on my headphones before heading off for my coffee walk and pick an artist that is not in my everyday list. Just this morning, I was listening to Douchii and having a dance party at my desk. Beyonce happens to be another one of those artists and I’m not going to lie. I like a number of her songs and I really enjoy her country album for the reasons already stated. I prefer the sound of earlier country music as opposed to today’s country tunes. This is why I often listen to Yola, who sings an old bluesy style of country. Today’s country, to me, sounds like fake country accents rapping to a banjo.

if you’re into listening to two dogs fuckin then sure I get ya other than that it’s pretty dumb

This was the reply left to my comment regarding Beyonce’s win. It is far from constructive and straight up racially inspired hateful. I was a little surprised, but I guess this is something this person feels passionately about considering they were willing to speak to their yoga teacher that way. Yes, this person used to be a regular yoga student. I left it alone. Melissa (who is a mutual Facebook ‘friend’) saw all of it and sent me a text. We’ve decided that Two Dogs Fuckin’ may be our new band name. But the exchange left me pondering what it was/is about Beyonce that induces such violent and visceral reactions. Particularly from suburban white women.

I remember hearing the hoopla and ridiculousness over the release of a country album by Beyonce. Radio stations in Nashville railed against it. Other country artists screamed hatefulness over it. “She’s not country!” “What could she possibly know about country?!?!” “She needs to stay in her lane.” So quickly these people had forgotten the African American influence on country artists. They did not throw such fits when Darius Rucker moved away from Hootie and the Blowfish to country music. Jelly Roll seemed to easily slide from rap into the country scene. Beyonce was born and raised in Houston Texas. I mean…that’s a big boots and chaps and cowboy hats kind of town. She grew up in country music and gospel. Also, these people are artists. Artists explore and experiment with different art forms all the time.

So why is it a problem that Beyonce has done this?

I can only guess that much of the hate thrown at Beyonce stems from not just the color of her skin, but that she is female. Resentment and jealousy genetically passed down starting with antebellum white women who watched their slave owning husbands sire child after child with his slave women. In that patriarchal landscape, the only place the white woman could put her pain and resentment was on that slave woman and the child. Thus began a systemic system of turning jealousy into hatefulness towards other women and particularly women of color. This could have been an excellent opportunity for women supporting women, but no, we once again let misogyny and racism win. Those white suburban women still believe that there is a specific place for everyone. Everyone must fit into their constructed social normative box. This is why they cannot tolerate the LGTBQ+, they’re people that do not fit in a specific place and a strong talented successful black woman blows up their little boxes.

I think if these women truly listened to Beyonce’s music they would discover a lot of commonality. Beyonce presents herself as strong and fierce, but you can hear in her music that she carries all the same insecurities as everyone else and shifting through the hatefulness just to read some constructive criticism probably feels impossible. And when they announced her name at the Grammys, the shock of winning was clearly evident on her face. She had received so much hate by releasing a country album that she probably struggled to comprehend a win in this category; because it is so much easier to see the hate that’s thrown at you than the good.

I don’t know what the sound of two dogs fucking is, not sure I’ve ever heard that, but if that’s the sound of this album then I guess I like it.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I’ve seen so many memes about the length of January and how it feels like the month that will never end. I mean, January sure has set a particular tone for the year by starting with a blizzard. Then we entered a chaotic period of governmental change immediately threatening people’s jobs. Oh, hey…did you hear about the tuberculosis outbreak happening over on the Kansas side of this city I live in? State line is a street, not a barrier and I’m four miles from that line. So masking up is a very reasonable thing to do while roaming the city. Yesterday, we witnessed a horrific plane/helicopter crash over the Potomac, killing everyone involved. Today, leaves us holding our breaths in anticipation of the next tragic thing. And maybe by tomorrow, everyone will be sighing with relief that January is finally over.

I don’t know if I will be one of those sighing with relief.

January is complicated. This month, named for the god of beginnings and transitions, was added to the Roman calendar sometime around 713 BC by King Numa Pompilius. At this time there was still much debate and speculation about how to create a calendar. The first of January didn’t become the first day of the year for another hundred years and of course this is just the Roman calendar. Don’t get me started on the Lunar Calendar, though in a quick research glance, I did note that Anglo-Saxons (White, English, “Christian”) are the only ones who do not celebrate the new year based on the new moon. We’ve also grasped tightly to the narrative of the month being a new beginning. January is National Healthy Weight Awareness Month, National Codependency Awareness Month, Veganuary, and many more self improvement awareness things.

I find the expectation to make great changes to be stressful.

Thirteen years ago, January was a month of great change for me that was not one of my choosing. It holds more weight now then it did previously. Some of the weight is pure terror of the unknown of illness. Though the time was terrifying, painful and so fucking sad, still it was the last month I had with Chris. In between the pain and terror there were moments of great sweetness. We laid next to each other, hands clasped, and talked about everything and nothing. We laughed so much even while crying. The illness had not taken Chris’s mind yet and we spent hours together, just the two of us, soaking up the time we had left. I can’t really sigh with relief at the ending of January because February is so much worse.

Michael and I had a date night last Saturday that was really a hold-over birthday celebration. For the last three years whenever Michael has asked me where I want to eat for my birthday, I always say Earl’s Premier . This never works out because of some reason or other. This year, I stomped my foot and pouted. This is how we ended up with reservations almost a week after my birthday. It was all worth it. We took my scooter charm into Tiffany’s to be repaired and had the most pleasant experience. Then I went to Anthropolgie to spend my gift card. Again, I had the most pleasant experience, which was a surprise for me because I was not feeling good in my skin. The sweater I purchased is so so pretty and the colors make me feel joy. I will be sad to not wear it year round. Then we went to Earl’s and had the most spectacular dining experience. Simple. Delicious. Fabulous. A lesson for next year: Do not attempt birthday celebrations on actual day of birth.

Psst….I’m planning on celebrating a month earlier…in Paris!

So on this very last day of this first month of a new year, I’d like to celebrate the good that is tucked away between the bad. I survived another year! I’m relatively healthy! I can still touch my toes and move my body around. My mother also celebrated another birthday this month and I feel lucky to still have her with us. I ate a dozen perfect little raw oysters. I now own a sweater that contains the colors of a dessert sunrise. Only the giant piles of snow left from clearing streets and sidewalks still remain. All the rest of the snow has finally melted this week. Olga, my sourdough starter, is still alive and kicking. I may attempt ciabatta again this weekend.

Tucked inside the bad of the month were warm soothing hugs, silly giggles, and fascinating stories. I have gratitude for this messy, but lovely month.

I'M LEARNING FRENCH BUT DREAMING IN JAPANESE

Ever since Michael said that we were going to try to make Paris happen this year, I’ve been channeling Yoda and saying “there is no try!” I have committed myself to learning enough French so as not to be the stupide americain in Paris. Michael tried to get through the very first Duolingo lesson and then immediately gave up. He says that he just can’t hear what is being said. I will admit that I struggled through the first three or four lessons for the very same reason, but the more I stick with it, the easier it’s getting. Now I’m trying to use phrases I’ve learned in conversation. I’ve also been listening to a lot of French pop music. I am sure my pronunciation is utter garbage, but I can read French pretty well. 

Sort of.

Meanwhile, I keep waking up at one AM from a recurring dream about a young pregnant Japanese woman who is the only survivor of a bloody assassination attack on her gang lord husband. I think it’s something I’m co-writing with Quentin Terentino because then I lay awake for the next two or so hours mentally writing out what happens to her after she flees the house and all the bloody dead bodies. I have lots of ideas, like this one: Yuri tentatively makes her way into the main living room. Gore and death surrounds her, but she feels a hand grasp her ankle. Yuri struggles to not scream but looks down to see her husband Isamu covered in blood but still gasping for air. She leans down and he draws a bloody finger tip down her cheek, lays his hand on her round full belly before letting the hand drop limply to the floor. Then he rips the chain holding a small silver key from his neck. Isamu places the key in the palm of Yuri’s hand and closes her fingers tight around it. “You are free” Isamu whispers with his last breath.

Then what happens?!?! Who was the assassin? Why was Yuri spared? Is Isamu really the father of the child she’s carrying?

I don’t know! I mean I know, but I don’t know!

Oh, hey…did you know that perimenopausal induced hives are a thing? I do. Also, I’ve been bleeding from my vagina since January 19th. 

The crazy dreaming and sleep habits are partly due to my body, but I have to admit that I’m also doing a lot of worrying. Last week was a doozy. So many things happened! One of those things was that the NIH was told to put a hard pass hold on grant reviews. For those of you who do not know, the NIH funds a lot of basic medical research. Some of you may also not realize that while I am a scientist, research facilities like mine employ a number of nonscience people (maybe even more because it takes a lot to keep a building running). Less, or in this case no grant, money means less jobs for EVERYONE. Putting people out of work doesn’t seem like a smart way to boost an economy, but maybe I just need to be patient and wait it out…

The White House budget office ordered a pause in all federal loans and grants. The directive could upend funding for local governments, disaster relief and education. -The New York Times

Anyway, I’m worried about not having a job in the future and I’m worried about my friends who are in similar situations. I’m worried about the safety of my friends who have been receiving extra amounts of bigotry and just plain hatefulness thrown at them (at times, literally). This administration hit the ground running to make this country more discriminative and are taking off their bigotry filters (if they even had any to begin with). There’s a woman I have followed in the blog community for years. She’s wonderful, writes books on being kind and spreading joy. She’s a beacon of light. Her elderly parents have been accosted multiple times in the last few months. One of those times, her father could have been seriously injured because a man pushed him off his bike. The other time, a white woman angrily yelled the n-word at both of her parents and then threatened to beat them over a parking situation. 

Is this the country that we are now? What does “Make America Great Again” truly mean? Because if this, straight up encouraging hatefulness and taking away funding that supports low and middle class citizens is the way to “make America great”, I’m not sure I want any part of being an American. And I am struggling to understand how anyone who claims to be a follower of Christ can support any of this. Leaving the country, which is something Michael and I have discussed in regards to our retirement, is becoming a more appealing idea. Chris and I, years ago, started doing this thing where we’d take vacations to where we thought we might want to live someday. We’d pretty much settled on Portland,OR and Kansas City wasn’t even on our list, but we ended up very happy with our move. Nine blissfully happy months. Anyway, maybe this is how Michael and I should consider our travel adventures, start vacationing in places we might want to retire to one day. Except Paris. I know Paris is an unsustainable retirement option. 

Especially if my retirement is fucked because I lose my job next year. 

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Last Saturday, I had birthday lunch and pedicures with my mom, brother and sister-in-law. We had a very lovely time. Then on Sunday, our friends Nurse Jenn, husband Wade, Jenn’s youngest Bee and their partner M (who has recently been accepted to the firefighter program…young people doing stuff!) met Michael, the Cabbage and I for roller skating and then Indian food. We had a very lovely time. Then on Monday, I put myself into a media bubble and would only allow All Creatures Great and Small on the TV or a movie of my choosing (I chose A Real Pain…highly recommend). Sometime in the afternoon, Jenn brought over sticky toffee pudding and we sat on the couch eating this delicious treat while nerdily discussing the Interstitium (more on this some other time, but I’m scientifically obsessed). All and all, it was a peaceful day.

Forty nine, or any of the nine-ending ages, feels like an odd one. Nineteen sounds like one is trying to convince others that they are older, while twenty nine, thirty nine and forty nine all sound like one is desperately clinging to a younger age. I feel like for this year I will constantly be defending myself with a “No really! I am forty nine.” Though Michael did say that I could probably get away with telling people that I am thirty nine. He likes living in my house and even though I force him to eat kale. I mean, it is a nice thing to tell me, but I’ve never been one to baulk at increasing age or pine for my youth. I look forward to turning fifty. Each year brings new insights and challenges. The challenges greeting me this year are centered around shutting out the chaos and noise and focusing on my community. How can I better serve the people in the place where I live? How can I protect those who will be at threat and in danger because of our new Nazi administration? Some of you think I am joking. I can assure you I am not. My dear friend Bradley has already been given notice that he will most likely lose his federal job and a most recent executive order rescinds Equal Opportunity act 13988 that prevents discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation. Life is about to get really scary and dangerous for a large population of Americans. I’m going to focus on making my community a safe, all inclusive community and I learned something at the roller rink on Sunday that may help me stay focused and out of the chaos.

There was a woman around my age at the roller rink and I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by her. She just looked so relaxed and at ease on her skates, even skating with her hands in her pockets. At one point, as Jenn and I made our way back out to the rink from a short break, we passed this woman as she was standing to the side of a birthday party table. Jenn stopped and said to the woman “You are our role model on skates.” I nodded in agreement and said “You look so at ease on your skates. I want to be that relaxed when I’m skating!” Now, I’m not a bad skater. I don’t fall down or flail (mostly) all over the place, but my body is a taught wire in anticipation of falling. I don’t feel at ease or relaxed or graceful. This woman thanked us and then said that the first time she went out on skates, she was terrible. She ran into the walls so many times, she had bruises all over her body. She swore she’d never go back. Then her daughter got onto her and said “You raised me to be strong and brave and to never give up. You can’t give it up either!” So she went back to the rink. She then confessed to us that she had only learned to skate just last year. She told us that we can also skate like her. She said “Relax your knees. It’s like dancing.”

I got out onto the rink and heeded her advice, relaxing my knees and swaying like I was dancing. Then I put my hands in my pockets and as soon as I did that, I felt my entire body change. I stopped worrying about a potential fall and just casually skated my way around and around the rink. I think this applies to pretty much everything. Relax your knees and just dance. Put your hands in your pockets. If we fall, we’ll get back up. If you fall, I will help you get back up. Many of us were raised to be strong, brave and to never give up. We can’t give up now. I’m grateful for the skate lesson that turned out to be a life lesson. I am also grateful for all the well wishes that I have received this week.