I Will Never Eat Stovetop Stuffing Again

Eating pizza in the heavenly spring sunshine, and I've never done heroin, but the combination of the aforementioned might be the same level of high. Fuck...... Yessss......let your eyes roll back. It is probably all the more delicious because, well, it is the most delicious thing ever invented, but also because I am not supposed to eat it. And I'm going to get sick from it later. After carefully considering the cost/benefit analysis....I eat the pizza.

I wonder about people who don't live to eat. Are they colorblind in their tastebuds? Do they really believe that life should be lived without jumping in full tilt into every hedonistic good feeling that can be wrung out of this weird little planet? Yes, I want the sex, yes, I want the chocolate, yes, I want the art, and the babies, and the puppies, and the choir music in cathedrals and the vistas from high mountains, and I don't EVER want to say no to pleasurable experiences for the greater long-term good. With that philosophy, it really is a wonder that I'm not into drugs.

Why are some people so good at diets, and working in cubicles, and wearing short-sleeved dress shirts, doing all their homework, and all that? I don't have that. When I was little, the story of Ryan White was big in the news. He was a kid who died of AIDS. The media made a really fucked up example of him, if you don't remember, because he was an innocent kid, rather than someone who had done something WRONG, like taken drugs or had gay sex, and therefore "deserved" society's horrible treatment.  I remember part of his story was that he refused to have a feeding tube, even though eating was painful, because HE WANTED TO EAT, and fuck everyone who recommended otherwise. That is something I can relate to. I don't want to eat gluten if it isn't THAT good, like...fine, I will never eat Stove Top stuffing again, but no more really good, really hot, New York style? Getdafuckattahere. That is the highest culinary poetry. Literally, I would rather die.

When I was homeless, I spent five dollars once on sparkly jelly bracelets. My boyfriend was livid at my wastefulness. I realized, under interrogation, that I felt quite pleased with my acquisition, and, for me, it was wise spending on that day. I screamed at him,"I JUST NEEDED SOMETHING SPARKLY!" I couldn't find any sorry in my heart. In A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, every starving urchin got coffee to drink or not drink, and there is some quote about having something to waste, even in poverty. Or something to eat, even in gluten-allergy.

I've been back reading the archives of the dead blogger. God, she was so good. God, she had such voice. God, I saw so much of myself in her...suburbanite's daughter gone bad...spoiled white intellectual fascinated with the other side of the tracks....She cared about the same sort of stuff that I did. She was the kind of person that I am looking for around Rednecktopia, and I don't find. She had books to write still, but she died anyway, yet I did everything possible that I wanted to do, but I'm still here, getting fat on pizza in the sun.

love and light,
your friend,
Hil

Don't Be A Fraidy

"Fox at Dusk", new work

Happy Easter to those who celebrate! Happy Beautiful Sunny Sunday, to those who don't! I am always sorta confused about what to do on Easter, since I am not a Christian, but nature is exploding with flowers all over the place, and it feels like an excellent idea to follow suit, be happy and join in with everyone else's fun. I was outside with the sun on my arms for the first time this year, and my shoulders are like,"Yow! What is THAT!?" I'm getting high on vitamin DEEEEEEE! :)

 It is quiet around here, since last weekend was the huge family celebration for my grandmother's 100th birthday. Nevie is spending Easter with her boyfriend's family, and we will go over to the inlaws' tonight for a nice dinner. Sequoia is in the kitchen, cooking vegan food to bring along, (smells good...onions and garlic, I think it is going to be a spinach dip thingy) and Bob is in the yard, throwing the ball to the dogs. 

I have been invited to participate in the Hawk Mountain Art Tour on June 3, which is a really cool event where you get a map, and drive around the mountain, stopping at all the cool little art studios hidden in the hollows. I will be showing my paintings at a kinetic sculptor's park-like studio. He makes those giant, moving sculptures that you may see at a huge office building or a university. Apparently, these people think I'm a real artist or something.  I'VE GOT TO PAINT MY ASS OFF NOW! I am very proud of my newest piece, "Fox at Dusk". Here is the whole triptych, 48 inches long...

I've been watching Life Below Zero while I paint, on Netflix. I do not want to live in Alaska, but I am reminded of a mindset that I seem to have drifted a bit away from this winter...staying close to nature and holding on to what is real..."simple living". I really gained a lot by watching this show, especially from Agnes, the Inuit mom. I was hardly outside this winter. I've been more tapped into pop culture and consumerism an all that...for what? I've been spending my whole life in my car, really, going here and there and everywhere. I buy things I should make. I spend my time and money on stupid stuff. Suddenly, the weather is warm and the flowers are blooming, and I don't want to leave my house ever again. I want to work here and live here, and make things here. 

I am thinking about making changes to this blog. I don't like the platform, I want to go back to wordpress. I'm not sure the level of privacy I want to maintain. I really don't know if I want to continue blogging at all, since my readership is about 5, but who am I kidding...I'm addicted, I can't stop. Every time I take time to blog, I feel like I'm wasting time, since no one cares what happens in my life, and I am not "making" anything. Torn. 

My online friend passed away, recently, and everyone was talking about how wonderful her writing in her blog was, and going back to the old links. She really was a GREAT writer, with a crystal clear voice. I don't Write with a capital W, I just throw it all up all over the page without any craft or design...for what? At first it was therapy, a life saver, and I made a tremendous amount of new friends, but I haven't met a new person in here in years, probably. The "journalling" genre kind of died with the takeover of facebook, instagram and snapchat. I don't know, I don't know...

My mind has been a bit hazy, too, another gift from Hashis. Bob has told me what his plans are three times, now, and it kind of floats over my brain, like backround music, but doesn't sink in. I know he told me, but I don't hear it. 

Suddenly, I feel like ten years older. Bob and I have had a lot of "adulting" to do lately...taxes, credit scores, loans, meetings at the bank, money stuff, meeting the boyfriend, meeting the boyfriend's family, travelling. I can't believe this is us! I wouldn't have believed it, if someone had shown me my current life through a glass, ten years ago. I'm going to own a home, and cars...plural!? And Nevie will be in a BOARDING SCHOOL?! WTF? I am going to know our credit scores, at some point? And things like interest rates and home equity? I am going to pay something called "Flood Insurance"? I'm like, almost, a contributing member of society! Haha!

 God help Society. The US is bombing everyone everywhere. I'm not ignorant to the news, but I don't write about it too much. I refuse to be a squawking liberal, just flapping my wings-can-you-BELIEVE-oh-my-GOD-we-are-DOOMED...maybe we are doomed. Actually, it is annoying to me that people assume that everything will stay all tidy and solid under their feet their whole lives. Like, genocide can happen, bombs can happen, economic collapse can happen on TV, but not to their 2.3 children and a picket fence. What's that word that is so popular right now...entitlement? My dad used to have a teeshirt that said,"NOT in MY backyard!"  People act entitled to stability. Liberal as I am, I do see the chicken-ish-ness of my own. 

The right wing are chicken-ish, also. So scared of blacks, LGBT, muslims, and press-one-for-english, aren't they? So scared of women making their own sexual decisions? Apparently, the boys at Sequoia's school can't even be exposed to a woman's collarbone, the gents are so delicate. 

My grandfather grew up in Montana, an extremely tough place to live, in the Great Depression, with an alcoholic father. Holy Fuck, no place for softies. I read so much Laura Ingalls Wilder when I was a kid...sometimes they didn't have food. Mary went blind. Once, they built a homestead, by the skin of their teeth, and had to LEAVE IT because they were on Native American land. That's a bad day. 

Right now, our government is taken over by mean spirited ignoramuses, so we will fight. We will insist on feeding the hungry, including the marginalized, resist the militarization of our police and the corporatization of everything down to the air we breathe. Just stop acting so HORRIFIED, like you couldn't BELIEVE it could happen. It happens all the time, in other backyards. 

I guess that is what I respect about the "Living Below Zero" people...yes, they have a subsistence lifestyle, but that lifestyle allows them so much more harmony, with nature, with society, and within themselves. They aren't talking shit about Syrians, they are focused on preparing to survive in winter. 

That' all for today.

Don't be a fraidy.

Love and light,

Your friend,

Hil

 

 

I Took Zero Photos

I just got back from my grandmother's GIANT 100th BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION in Sleepy Hollow, where I took ZERO pictures. There were 38 family members there, and probably an equal number of my grandmother's friends, and wooooo! It was a huge BASH! There were so many people there that I almost walked by reception hall because I thought that it wasn't our party! My grandma is apparently Miss Popularity at the retirement home!

 I haven't seen my brother and his family in years, and so I tried my best to be fully present and give them real attention rather than sticking my phone in their face. My bro and his wife gave me vibrating slippers as a belated birthday present. With CHEETAH PRINT! I'm wearing them every day now, but especially to any school function where I can embarrass my girls! We were disappointed at first when we discovered that they needed new batteries, but Bob ran down to the car and brought the exact size batteries to save the day.

At the party, I brought face paint and snuck into the corner with the kids and painted faces, so no hands for photos. And I also jumped at the chance to hold the brand new baby, Vivian, and snuggled the bejesus out of her. I really tried to get around to everyone and visit.That is a much better use of time than endless photos. I spoke to my grandmother, the Birthday Queen, the least, because she always had a receiving line.

Every one of the relatives of my generation has little kids but me. I started 15 years ahead of the traditional ultra-educated white people schedule (married at 30, kids at 35 is our culture's standard). All and all, there were 11 kids.  I was relaxing with my thoughts while everyone was chasing munchkins. A weird change of roles. Nevie helped with The Smalls a lot, and even tried to take them swimming but the hotel pool was closed.

I woke up way before everyone else (of course...I'm on farm time), and it was quiet. I drank coffee and walked around the hotel...leisurely-like. It is a strange new phase of life. Maybe I don't need a baby, I just have to get used to how weird it feels for me not to have "irish twins" to mind all the time. How to not think in multiples of three constantly (myself, plus 2)... three chairs, three toothbrushes, three pairs of underwear, three cups of juice? Because that's what my brain still automatically does. Bob and I were talking about what terrible self-care habits we have. I guess that is what I am supposed to learn...how to love and take care of myself, which I never really got a chance to do. It seems easier to add motherhood, though, than it is to let go...

My grandmother, sharp as ever, had not missed any of the gossip, and wanted to know why Nevie didn't bring her new boyfriend! When I told her that Nevie's guy's name is Dakotah, she innocently asked if he is Native American! Dakota (minus the H) is a pretty common name now, but to a 100 year old lady's ears, that's a new one! It was very cute.

Not tired, but got to go to sleep to get up before dawn tomorrow.

Love and light,
Your friend,
Hil

Exsanguinate

I've been thinking about Topanga Canyon, it keeps popping up in my thoughts. Topanga Canyon is the only place in Southern California that I didn't hate. I loved the curvy roads, the live oaks and the creative expressions of hippy that would pop up in the least expected places. I haven't thought about Topanga Canyon in fifteen years. Still, you can spit at Malibu from there, and everything gross about it. In my imaginary Topanga, the place is alone, NOT near Malibu, not near Santa Monica, and definitely NOT near Beverly Hills. My father says that places like Topanga Canyon can only exist on the tit of places like Malibu, on the money of others. He was talking about Woodstock, NY at the time, existing only because it is near NYC. "We can be FREEEEEE because my dad is an oral surgeon....". 

One thing I can say about Rednecktopia, it is guileless. I don't worry about what people will think of me, what I'm wearing, what kind of bag I have. I sometimes forget that that sort of world even exists. Here, no one is playing a character. No one has anything to prove. No one is running away from a life somewhere else...other than me! LOL! If I left here, I know I would miss the honesty of the people, even if I complain about it. Bob has that honesty. He can't even conceptualize fakery. It is part of the Pennsylvania Dutch culture, from what I can tell. It can be naive on one side, but it can be incredibly trustworthy on the other. 

Nevie just came in with her new boyfriend. She and I were wearing damn near the same hair and damn near the same outfit. Weird. I have created a clone. I'm supposed to hate the boyfriend, right? but he seems just adorable. ADORABLE! I hope my opinion stays the same. 

I was in the ER yesterday because my period was trying to bleed me out. While I was at work, an excellent opportunity to practice humiliation. This is another spiritual gift of Hashimoto's disease. They gave me an ultrasound (inside and out), they took five vials of blood (to which I exclaim,"WHAT THE FUCK! I'M HERE BECAUSE I HAVE NO BLOOD!"), looked in my hoohoo for weirdness, and have no idea why I am exsanguinated. The word processor does not think that exsanguinated is a word, but I know that it is. Fuck off, word processor. I know words. They will tell me to go to the gyno, who will tell me to go on birth control which I don't want to do because I kinda want a baby, and there we will have reached a stalemate. 

There is all of my personal business. Discuss with your partner and write a three paragraph response. 

I am embarrassed to say I want a baby. There it is. 

Every time I blog I feel like I am stealing from the time I should be making profitable art. I need to paint. I need to paint. I need to paint. I need to paint. 

When I paint stuff, people like it and buy it. Then I have money and I can buy things. The embarrassment of my life is that I have not made "enough" money.  I think I was supposed to be a monk or something, and not worry about it. 

I feel like Frida Kahlo is my patron saint. She was in pain. She was wronged. She thought for herself. My suffering is nothing compared to hers, but she would fully understand, wouldn't she?

love and light,

your friend,

hil

SWEET? A Rant

I went to a wedding in a baptist church yesterday, and was reminded that I am going to hell if I don't accept Jesus as my personal savior, and that a woman should be meek, mild, sweet, obey her husband, and allow him to lead. I think the word SUBMISSIVE was used a dozen times in the wedding ceremony. Everyone just kept saying how "sweet" the bride is, so sweet, always sweet, sweet sweet sweet. She is really sweet, and she is going to be great in whatever she tries her hand at, I like her a lot, and this whole rant has nothing to do with her. This is what this rant is about: I am not sweet.

I am the opposite. I am a leader. I am bold, I am strong, I am spicy, I'm loud, I'm messy, and I'm aggressive. While sitting at the reception, Nevie told me, "MOM! You are so INTENSE!" It was meant as an insult and intended to make me shut up, but it felt like a wrongness being pointed out about who I, fundamentally, am.

I gave this some thought last night when I was laying in bed. Am I a bad wife? Is a women really supposed to NOT lead? Be quiet? Be sweet? Submit? I mean, it is a very old book, The Bible, and a lot of people like it. Is my boisterous, forthright, Make-It-Happen personality really bad? My jeans and my work boots, my laugh and my opinions, my adventurous spirit and my willingness to be out front, really bad?

It isn't just the Bible. It is at work, also. And at my inlaw's house. And now also from Nevie..."too intense."

I gave some thought to the sweet girls that I know. The pretty girls. The quiet, submissive, delicate girls that I know.The ones with a lot of hair and a lot of makeup and a lot of excitement about romance, and teddy bears, and bad pop music. I thought about it and I actually started to cry because I began to understand the difference between the sweet girls and myself. The sweet girls were taken care of, protected, shielded...and so were able to remain sweet.

The sweet girls weren't thrown into the fray. The sweet girls didn't have disease, death, birth, divorce, poverty, adventure, disaster, addiction, sex, drugs or rock and roll. The sweet girls stayed sweet because their culture kept them behind a veil, their parents, their school, their religion, whatever. Other people deal with things for them. That is how they remain sweet.

OTHER PEOPLE DEAL WITH THINGS FOR THEM.

When you submit, you allow other people to make your decisions. When you do not lead, you follow. When you are sweet, you do not voice your opinion, and other people run your life.

In my experience, being sweet is something that happens when a girl is very young. When I was very young, my mom was sick, and my dad struggled with addiction. I moved three thousand miles from home, I got married to an emotional torturer of a man, was divorced with two kids at 23, and became very financially limited. None of those challenges allowed me to "submit" because a leading man was going to handle it. I HAD to handle it. I HAD to be out front. I HAD to make noise. I HAD to demand. I HAD to argue and defend myself. If I had remained sweet, I would be dead in a ditch right now.

Sweet is a luxury of a woman who is very secure. And then I thought, what bastards the people of the church are to prize sweet above all else, because you can't stay sweet, or accommodating, or submissive if you really are riding the wild horses of life, can you? You really can't stay sweet if no one is pampering you. You really can't stay sweet when you are hungry. Or your kids need medical care and you have no insurance. Or your ex husband is trying to beat in your door. Or your father is incarcerated. Or any of the million real life things that happen to real life women. And what are these UNSWEET WOMEN? Unbiblical? Unholy? Going to hell? No. The Unsweet women are fucking warriors, and fucking heroes. The unsweet women are getting shit done because they are forced to.

Treasuring and holding up as an example only the women who have not been tested by the realities of life on earth is really mean of the church. Really, really mean.

I was not sweet at 16, or 20, or 25. I was not sweet at 30, or 35. I would like to become more sweet. I am more secure now. I don't need to be at war. I don't need to demand, to bang my fist on bureaucratic counters. I would like for things to be easy enough for me to smile, accommodate others, and look pretty. I would like to think about what I wear, and making things lovely, and being cutesy with my husband.

Again, I repeat, Sweet is a luxury of a woman who is very secure. Unsweet women are fighting at all the wars of life, as they should. As they have to. As they should be proud to do.

Love and light,
Your friend,
Hil

Planet X

My Life's Work

Well, hey. I've been running like a lizard on a hot road for weeks, and yesterday I just sat and listened to music for hours. After so many years of wanting to die, now I suddenly am interested in doing things, and I run myself ragged. The mechanic can't believe how many miles I put on my car, because I have to GO PLACES! I have to be in NY, and I have to be in PHILLY, and I have to be in MERCERSBURG, and I have to be in ALLENTOWN! Go! Go! Go! 

I think I am happy. When you don't have major problems, and you don't hate getting up in the morning, and you basically get to choose what you do in life, that's happy, right? I think I am, actually. Weird!

I don't know if you knew Becky Brewster, she has been a long time online friend of mine, a creative, intelligent, gypsy with a little heroin problem that she was very frank about. She passed away, just about my age. Very sad, even though I never met her. I liked very much knowing that there are people like her out there. I'm definitely pouring one out for my homie. Heroin is proof that God doesn't care.

I believe in God. Just not convinced that God cares at all. Does the wind care? Does the fire care? Nope. They are forces to which we must comply. It is our own job to care. Sometimes you think to not step on a crocus in the forest, and sometimes you don't, you just trample it to pieces. That's God.
Detachedly benevolent. "Oh, yeah, now that you bring it to my attention, sorry I trampled you to pieces..."-God I do not hold the neo-Christian belief that God is my cheerleader.

This weekend, I have to pick up Nevie and bring her home for a wedding, and then next weekend I have to get Nevie again to bring her to a gigantic family reunion and my grandmother's 100th birthday. Not gigantic in numbers, but gigantic in the fact that my sister is travelling from Ottawa, and my brother is travelling from Florida to be there. I want to bring something for all the kids. I've got to think on that. There is a baby, a 1, a 2, a 4, a 5, a 7, a 11, a 12, a 15 and a 16...something like that. I've got to think of something they all would like. Screw the adults. I only like kids.

Have you ever made a realization about something that happened years ago and gotten furious about it? That happened to me recently, when I was thinking about how I remain emotionally detached from my grandmother. Bob's number one favorite person on the planet was his grandfather, and my grandmother knows little more about me than my name.  I am 37 years old, and I was thinking about how my mother was given a 2% chance of living when I was a teenager, and went through chemo, radiation, and a lumpectomy, and that was only the beginning of a massive downward spiral for my family. My dad was drowning himself in alcohol in response, and my brother and sister had grown and moved away, so I was the only kid at home. There was violence and suffering.  NOT ONE TIME did my grandmother check in on me to see how I was coping. NOT ONE TIME.

NOT.
ONE.
TIME.

So, congratulations on turning 100.

It had not occurred to me that maybe a grandparent might have been a part of a support system to me until like, literally, yesterday. I was seeing how much love my mom gives my kids, and I thought, wow, where were my grandparents in my life? Spending their millions on vacations abroad and participating in Gardening Club luncheons.

I think this has had a greater impact on me than I realized because I have basically made every decision in my life to keep from being a millionaire myself. Somewhere in my childhood-conceived subconscious, I knew that their priorities were on planet X. Maybe I could let go of that a little bit now, though. No one said being low income is the best revenge! Lol

Enough for now.

Love and light,
Your friend,
Hil

Starry Night Party and Treating a Gluten Hangover

I wasn't gonna, things have been so crazy, but I threw another big party last night in honor of Sequoia's birthday. Bob's words ring in my ear from years ago, when I was debating throwing another party, "What else did we get this house for? We got it for the girls to have happy memories and a place to bring their friends...". So, I clean, I shop, I chaperone, and we had a really epic party for Sequoia.

Starry Night

Theme: STARRY NIGHT
Guests: 20ish
Budget: $100

Menu: Pizza, veggies, chips and salsa, fruit kabobs, popcorn with different toppings, candy,  homemade vegan cake (which the kids demolished! Not a crumb was left!), water and soda

VEGAN CAKE RECIPE: HERE!

Decorations: Christmas lights, plastic stars and candles that we already had around the house, a couple of star helium balloons to mark the house to visitors

The Birthday girl wore: A little black lace dress with black flats

Extras: Bubbles for everyone, twister and an Instagram contest...the best photo won a beautiful set of pastel art pencils.

My vegan cake recipe

Ashley and Sequoia

In the process of writing this, my pear boss called and wanted to talk business with me, Bob arrived home and wanted to show me some things on the truck, and the dog ran way. So much for FOCUS!

ANYWAYS...
The party started at 3, people were still showing up at 7 and I was kicking kids out at 10pm, so I guess it was a good party! I had figured that kids would split earlier because it was a Sunday afternoon, but I forgot that the next day was an IN SERVICE DAY, and there was NO school. I was using all my mom's tricks...coming downstairs in pajamas, cleaning up all the food, and then pointedly asking,"Do you have a ride home, sweetie?" LOL.

I ate pizza and felt like I had the worst hangover the next day. Gluten, the little fucker, gave me a headache, stomach ache, and brain fog. Nutrition...I need it. I just can't give up gluten. I keep sticking my finger in the electric socket over and over and over because...pizzzzaaaaa! The next day, I dose myself with my new FUCK YOU GLUTEN remedies:
1. Tumeric tea...just throw some turmeric in some hot water, and drink it. Tastes BAD. Works GOOD.
2. Tart Cherry Juice
3. Naked Juice Green Machine
4. If I'm still dead, Salmon and Asparagus!
5. Sunlight and gentle walking
6. Rest
7. If nothing else is available, in an absolute pinch...Ibuprofen.

Tada! Cured. Usually if I pick three off of the above list, it is good enough. Feeling good today. And I got to eat pizza.

Love and light,
your friend,
Hil