The Crazy Road to My First Art Show

Prologue:

About 25 years ago, sometime between the time I graduated college with a music degree and got married (1996) and the time I had a baby (2001) I took a drawing class at Santa Rosa Junior College. Perhaps stunted by my mean first grade teacher and her art “teaching,” I had zero experience. At the end of each class at the junior college, we would all tack our drawings on the wall and people would compliment drawings without knowing whose was whose. Mine were never complimented, but I was just happy that I could tell what they were supposed to be. And I loved the feeling I had leaving the weekly evening class. I had totally disappeared into my drawing for hours and felt like I’d had a deep meditation session. The teacher was great. I can’t remember her name, but I remember she’d done a painting of a waitress and she loved cerulean blue, or maybe it was a certain shade of green. We’d had a list of art supplies that included some absolute necessities and some recommended items. Some students had cases full of charcoal pencils of varying levels of softness and all sorts of gadgets. I had two pencils, an eraser, and a sketch pad. Every week I thought maybe I would be able to afford to pay the eleven dollar fee for the semester, and every week I just didn’t have it. Eventually I got taken off the roll sheet and always felt guilty about the half-semester of education I got without paying. This was before youtube.

March 2023

While the details of my divorce get sorted out, I start sleeping at my parents’ house. My dad says he has acrylic paints he never got around to using and asks if I want to paint while I’m there. For a second I revert from 49 to 15 and think “No DAD. I don’t want to do that lame thing,” but then I say “Actually, I want to make paintings focusing on each of the chakra colors for meditation.” I find cheap 12″ x 12″ canvases at Rileystreet Art Supplies in Santa Rosa. They come in packages of seven, which is perfect, but I get an extra pack just in case. My red mandala is basic at best. I like my orange painting but I seem to be the only one. I get a little more detailed for yellow, and my Facebook friends say they like it. When I get to blue, my neighbor asks me if I can paint her one like it. After I finish my seven colors and hang them on the wall in my parents’ tiny extra bedroom, I decide to paint a rabbit, because it’s the year of the rabbit and my little extra bedroom happens to be decorated with rabbits. I decide to use all the chakra colors as a striped background, red at the bottom and magenta at the top, and when my rabbit is done, my discerning sister says, “I would hang that in my house.” Perhaps two months have passed since the red mandala. I Google things like “how to make peacock blue” and “how to make things look like they’re glowing.” I scrap a painting of a boat–realism requires patience I don’t intend to spend on painting–and decide to make a blue heron for my sister. I post a picture in progress on Facebook, and a Facebook friend says “I want to buy that!” I ask if $100 is okay and she says yes! Mind you I have a music degree and have tried to sell songs to no avail for many years. I’m shocked to say the least. I say “Sorry Sis, I’ll give you the next one” and make a blue heron with a watered down background like I’d used for my mandalas, but striped like I’d used for the rabbit. When I post a picture of it, another friend says “Can I get one with more yellow in the background?” So I paint one for her. Then I paint a humpback whale on watercolory stripes for my other sister. A friend asks for a yellow mandala and I custom design one using ideas that represent her and her kids. I paint a simple, ocean-inspired one that another friend wants one similar to.

February 2024

And now it’s about 10 months since I started painting. I recently saw some posts in a local Facebook art group asking for submissions. One is a contest for a fishing festival poster. I slapped the silhouette of someone fishing on my ocean painting and am going to submit it next week. One was for an artist in residence deal and I will find out in two weeks if I am chosen for three weeks alone in a cabin in the woods. Both of those seem unlikely, but the third was a woman looking for art for the walls of a brewery taproom nearby, and she agreed to show my paintings in one of her five-week time slots!

I mostly wrote this down to remember the details. A few free paintbrushes from my parents, some support from my friends, and the power of social media, and here I am trying to decide what to paint for my first showing. I don’t even know if that’s what you call it! I don’t even have PayPal or anything. I’ve never used a QR code in my life! I think I can fit about 9 paintings on the wall they’ve designated for me. I have about 7 months. Now what to paint.

(you can fine me on facebook at color meditation paintings by rae rae)

Home

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” –Maya Angelou

I might not get my house in the divorce. That might not seem like the end of the world despite my having lived there for 20 years, but it’s where our adult child lives, and I have been mostly a stay at home mom. I work ten hours a week from home and have three trombone students outside the house. I have lunch with my kid most days. We drink hot chocolate and play games. I know some people are empty nesting by now, and so I tell myself it’s not that bad that I may have to move out. I don’t like to write too much about my kid in a public forum, so I won’t say more. And I could say a lot more. But if you’re a mom, you know. And if you’re not a mom, you couldn’t know.

I love my neighbors. On either side there’s a divorced woman a little older than me. One has been there the whole time we’ve lived here and gives me zucchini she grows, and the other is a retired psychologist who has helped me through some things. We share walls, and our front doors are about 10 feet apart, so all three of us are chatting quite a bit, as well as a young widow two doors down. We all have one grown child. I know about their exes and their kids. I know their political views and their careers and where they grew up.

I offered to take less money in spousal support in exchange for staying here. So far he’s not been amenable. But also, I have looked at the prices of tiny houses, mobile homes, even boats. Slip rent is lower than space for mobile home rent, FYI.

After the comment from my soon to be ex’s brother on my last blog (and I realized after being wide awake until 4 AM stewing on it why he had written it, which has nothing to do with concern for his brother and everything to do with denial and being triggered about his own past) I thought about not writing about my theme for 2024 lest it be used against me, but my soon to be ex already knows how badly I want to stay in my home. And more importantly, my theme of “Home” is about this Maya Angelou quote. Actually I came up with the theme before searching for quotes about “home,” but it fit perfectly. I realized that the feeling of home that I want for myself can be achieved no matter where I live. Right now I’m sleeping at my parents’ house, and every time I come in, my dad says, “Welcome home.” My mom made room for me to make me feel at home. If I don’t live in my old house, my daughter can visit me and we can feel at home. When I drive to the redwoods or the coast, I am home. When I am content with myself, no matter where I am, I am at home.

I wasn’t even thinking about what my theme would be. The word popped into my head as I was driving from one home to another the morning after hardly sleeping because of that comment on my blog and the texts my soon to be ex’s brother had followed up with before I blocked his number. He had said, among other things, that I only take up oxygen, I was a piece of shit, I play the victim, I never do anything for myself, I’m a wanna be viral writer, I need psychiatric help, and I should f— myself with a cactus. Worse was when I suggested to my soon to be ex that he talk to his scary brother (who has a past) on my behalf, and he laughed and said if I was scared I should call the police. So the next morning I had such clarity. Any second guessing I had was GONE. I had been deep down worrying that everyone in town (where he grew up and is a popular teacher) would think less of me, but at that moment I stopped giving a shit. I think the real problem was that I hadn’t convinced myself yet that it truly didn’t matter what other people thought. Who cares if they think I’m lying and that he’s escaping a lazy, crazy wife? Who cares? I know the agreement we had when we got married. I know how he made me feel. I know how hard I have worked. I know that my memories are real. I know why I write. I know that as much as you hate your soon to be ex wife for in essence saying you are not okay to be married to that you shouldn’t be okay with someone (whose past you very well know–I mean talk about projection!) telling her she should f— herself with a cactus.

Maybe it’s denial, but I HAVE to think that I can be at home even if I don’t get to live with my beloved kid. I have to feel at home in this beautiful place where everyone might not believe me. I have to have a home so secure that it can’t be taken away from me. And truly it’s a home I never had even while I had my house. I may live on the streets, or at my parents’ house with no room for a nightstand or a shower to myself, but I will be more at home. It’s very clear now.

“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.” –Bashō

Your First Time Having Sex

A friend recently told me she was looking for a book on the basics of sex between a straight cis man and straight cis woman, and not finding what she wanted. I started looking around, too, and it was true–there was a lot of information about birth control (great information) and sexually transmitted diseases (great information) and how to choose a worthy and safe sex partner (great information) and how to increase your desire for your husband (ha) but not a lot about what will actually happen the first time you have sex. I even skimmed the newest edition of Sex for Dummies, by Dr. Ruth, but although that did have more about sex itself, there was almost TOO much information. It was like 400 pages and included anal (don’t go there your first time, or your second or third–many people don’t ever want to) and asides like “sex doesn’t mean as much to a man so don’t necessarily ask for a divorce if he cheats.” What?

I Googled some magazine articles, and those were closer, but I still felt like I had to piece together bits from each article.

So I decided to write my own. It may be overly simple and biased, but maybe it will help someone.

I’m going to assume that you’ve carefully chosen a partner and you are using protection. If you don’t know how to protect yourself from STDs and pregnancy, look that up and come back. I’m going to assume that you have been dating someone for a while and you’ve kissed a lot and you’re thinking the other person wants to go further, and you are pretty sure you want to, and you have hopefully even talked about it. (Okay I do want to mention that a guy often releases a little semen as soon as his penis gets hard, so don’t think he can just pull out at the end and it will be safe. Use a condom if you don’t want to get pregnant.) I’m going to assume you know that it’s okay if you never want to have intercourse and okay if you never even want to date. But if you do, read on.

It can feel awkward if one of you has more experience than the other, and chances are one of you does. But even if you are the person with less experience, that doesn’t mean the other person knows much.

Your first time should move from kissing to intercourse very slowly. Yes other forms of sex are considered sex, but my friend wanted to know about regular old intercourse. Consent is sexy, guys. There’s nothing unsexy about asking “Is it okay if I touch you here?” Or “Are you sure you want to have sex?” Wait for the enthusiastic “Yes.”

I remember a female friend of mine in college and I (COLLEGE!) did not know women could masturbate. She scoffed at someone who mentioned it and said “We’re kind of MISSING something!” (by this she meant a penis). But later in college I took a Marriage and Sex class (shoutout Dr. Sherlock!) and learned about the clitoris. I wish I knew how to put drawings on my blog. You can google diagrams and labeled reproductive system parts. Anyway, the clitoris is at the front of a woman’s private parts, and if she or her partner touches between the labia at the front and rubs gently, and she’s turned on by her partner (or her thoughts) she can have an orgasm without any vaginal penetration. The reasons it’s good to know this are 1. If a man touches you this way it can help your vaginal canal lubricate so that sex isn’t painful, 2. If the man has an orgasm first and his penis gets soft, he can still help you have an orgasm by using his fingers or tongue on your clitoris (Pro tip, men. If you care about your partner’s experience, she may want to have sex with you again!) and 3.) You can have an orgasm with no man and no sex toys! In fact, it’s difficult for the woman to have an orgasm without clitoral contact, which is another reason face-to-face sex is good the first time. Not only can you make eye contact, but the man’s body can touch the clitoris each time he thrusts. If, due to his penis size or the position of the sex, she is uncomfortable with his entering as far as he can, he can use his hand on her clitoris to help. Or she can use her hand!

But I’ve jumped ahead. The kissing and touching are very important in helping get the woman’s body ready. If a woman isn’t seeming to lubricate but still wants to have sex, you can use a lube product. Is KY jelly still around? I recommend the basics like that. Some women are sensitive to products with scents/flavors/whatever.

Each woman likes different things, so pay attention! This foreplay of kissing and touching should probably last a minimum of 15 minutes. Look into each other’s eyes. Check in! Slow it down once in a while. A woman needs to feel very safe and comfortable in order for her body to respond.

Some of the info I looked at said that a woman’s hymen tearing the first time is a myth. They say it simply stretches and sometimes doesn’t even bleed. All I know is that my first time I did bleed a little and actually had to stop because it hurt. Second time (weeks later) no problem. Sorry guys, you might have to stop. (Pro tip: If you don’t stop when she says, it’s rape.)

In Sex for Dummies, they have drawings of 5 or so different positions for sex. And there are more. I’m going to recommend you use one of 3 basics for your first time. I don’t care what porn has excited the guy in the past, you want to be facing each other the first time. IMO either he should lie on the bed with her straddling him, she should lie on the bed with him on top with his hands on the bed around her supporting his weight (sometimes called missionary position) or they should lie on their sides facing each other and she can put her upper leg over him.

One good bit of info I found in an article was that after foreplay, the actual intercourse averages from 3-8 minutes. That is, if neither of you gets uncomfortable and wants to stop. Guys, please enter very slowly at first. Women, don’t be afraid to tell him to wait or go back to other making out stuff. You can give him an orgasm by using your mouth (oral) or hands or just stop altogether. Guys can also call it off at any time. ANY time.

After he (gently) puts his penis in her vagina, he will instinctively thrust repeatedly until he has an orgasm and ejaculates semen. Like I said, this supposedly will take an average of 3 to 8 minutes. But your first time he might be so worked up it might be less. He should not exit the vagina completely between each thrust, as every time there’s a reentry is a chance for missing on the way back in and causing the woman pain. For the love of Thor, guys, slow your roll. Think the tempo of a boy band “pining for a girl” song and not of a mosh pit or a rave or EDM or whatever the new thing is.

No one needs to do acrobatics. No one needs to try to make sexy moaning sounds. Bodies are sexy. Eye contact is sexy. Excitement and caring are sexy.

After a woman has an orgasm (if she has one, and she doesn’t need to worry if she doesn’t her first time) her vagina might stop lubricating and sex might get uncomfortable. So if the guy has (heroically) waited for her and has a while to go before he’s done, lube might be needed now, or she or he can provide the friction he needs in other, nonvaginal ways. Once again, she has the right to tell you to stop at any time. She’s not being unfair or selfish. She might suddenly be fearful or in pain. But likely everything will be awesome, and you will have a great orgasm. Yay!

And then it’s over. Maybe it seemed like a monumental deal, and maybe it didn’t. You might wonder if it seemed more meaningful to you than them, or you might wonder what is next for your relationship. You might be blissfully happy, or you might be disappointed. If so, don’t worry, there will be more opportunities for great sex if you want. Check in with the other person about how they’re feeling. Enjoy each other’s company for a while. That’s really important for a lot of people.

I will probably think of more to add to this (I wrote it quickly, after midnight and I’m very tired) but feel free to comment if you think I’ve given bad advice or if you have more to say to first timers.

I’m not sure how to sign off. Happy sexing? It’s late.

(Edit: after the comment from my soon to be ex’s brother, I will add, “Young women, have you considered lesbianism?” I’m personally going with singleness, but that’s not for everyone.)

In Memory of Franceen

When I first met my mother-in-law, Ferne, I had been dating her son for a while. I was finally meeting her and seeing his hometown and old house, where his mom still lived. He said, “Mom, do you like my haircut?” She said, “I wasn’t going to say anything, but no, it looks terrible.” He said, “Marie cut it.” Marie was me, of course. Poor Ferne.

Poor Ferne had also just been left by my husband’s dad. And all three of her sons were getting married soon. She was not in a happy place. We got married and moved near her, and she drove me crazy. She talked nonstop, and all her responses started with “No,” even if she was in agreement with you. “No it’s more like ____.” “No, you don’t quite get it.” She told my mom I should wear makeup. When I had a baby, we were the only ones of her kids living in town, and she would slowly drive by the house to see if our car was there and then show up at the door. She talked about other people gaining weight. She started going to church with us. She loved her grandbaby so much, but I was exhausted, and one day after she drove by and dropped in, I asked God, “You’ve said all things are for the good of those who love the Lord. How is this good for me?” It’s one of the three times I’ve heard an audible reply. I heard, “I’m going to show you how a relationship can change.”

I wondered if she was going to change. I wondered if I was simply going to become more patient.

Ferne’s middle name was Franceen, and at some point I found out that she had gone by Franceen until she got a job that printed her nametag as “Ferne” and met my husband’s dad. He learned her name as Ferne and insisted it stay Ferne. So by the time I met her, everyone knew her as Ferne, and Franceen was just a detail I learned much later.

Franceen had a shit childhood. Her dad abused her mom, and her brother abused her. The happiest years of her childhood were the two she spent early in her teens with her aunt, uncle, and cousin. Her mom said she hadn’t known about the brother’s abuse at the time, but I always wondered. Most people don’t go off to a relative’s house for two years.

And Ferne had a pretty rough marriage. It wasn’t as bad as her childhood, to be sure, but it wasn’t happy. She was sad and angry that her husband left at first, but later she said she was better off. She told me she would never marry again, (“Well, maybe if he’s really handy around the house”) and she didn’t. Save for one makeout session with a stranger on a cruise ship, she never even dated. She got her house just the way she wanted it, retired from the bank, let her mother move in with her for her mother’s last few years, and enjoyed being a grandma.

My husband adored his mom. They were very close, and he respected her so much for the life she was able to lead despite her childhood. He knew that life married to his dad was no picnic. But there was one story he always told that I didn’t think through for years. Apparently, one time she bought all new furniture with a credit card, and her husband cut up her credit cards when he found out. My husband always used this as a lesson that debt is bad. And in fact, when he and I went to buy a house, our credit score wasn’t high because we’d never had a credit card. More on that later.

Ferne loved my daughter more than anything. Yes she fed her too much sugar, and yes she commented on people’s weight in front of my daughter–a strange combination if you think about it–but she babysat and she got down on the floor for games, something she said she had never done with her sons. She bought me a dress I admired and paid for me to go to a church retreat. Yes she started going to church mostly to see her grandbaby more, but she made her first good friend there and they giggled their way through the woods at the retreat like the high school girlfriends they’d never had in high school. They were a hoot. One night at the retreat, Rosemarie woke us all up to say that Ferne was missing. Oh were the old ladies worried. They walked through the dark forest calling out “Ferne, Ferne,” only to find Ferne fast asleep in the sanctuary, where she’d gone for sanctuary from one of the other old ladies’ snores.

I also remember Ferne telling me that some of the other women in church dismissed her ideas because she didn’t know as much about the Bible. She thought her life experience counted for something. And it did. I remember one time telling her I felt like it was too late for something in my life. She said, “It’s never too late.” I know that sounds like something anyone would say, but her voice told me that she really cared and really meant it. Picture Meryl Streep saying it.

Our relationship didn’t change as drastically as I expected it to. I loved her, and I knew she loved me, and she still drove me a little crazy, and I know she didn’t enjoy me as much as she had my husband’s girly high school girlfriend. About 12 years ago she got ovarian cancer which they said was stage 3C, but according to my googling it was 4. The one and only appointment I took her to was the one where she found out her cancer was gone. My husband and his brothers took her to all the brutal ones, including the ones where she found out the cancer was back and decided she wasn’t going to try chemo again. I saw her on her last day on earth, when she was in a hospital bed at home, being cared for by her registered nurse son. Ten years ago now.

As my husband and I navigate divorce, I often think of Ferne. She told us her greatest fear was being forgotten. I have been thinking about those credit cards and recently emailed my husband about it. Ferne died with no debt. She was a bank manager and excellent with money. Her husband didn’t do any of the finances. That credit card story was not about the perils of debt. It was about abuse.

I know full well that Ferne would be there for my husband through this divorce, but unlike the other church ladies, I don’t think she would encourage us to stay together. I know she would want us both to be happy. I think she would even say it to me. I think she would say, “You need to do what you need to do to be happy.” She actually had changed a lot. She understood that you can never assume anything about anyone else’s situation.

I’ve also been thinking about her name. I started going by Rae a couple years ago and my husband didn’t want to make the switch. So anyway, I just wish she could know that she has not been forgotten–will never be forgotten–and I wish I had called her Franceen.

After Party Season 2 Theories after Episode 1 and 2

Okay, so the first two episodes of The After Party season 2 dropped yesterday and here’s my theory. Keep in mind that I was wrong last season about the killer’s MO. And keeping in mind that a lot of clues will come in the future. Also, I’ve only watched the first 2 episodes once.

Anyway, and this might be way more crazy than the actual story, but I figure that Edgar’s goal of uploading a person’s brain into AI or whatever (I really need to watch again) plays a major part in the plot. I also think that his sister saying “adopted” every time she’s introduced as his sister has some significance. And so here’s my idea. Edgar and his (adopted) sister are in love, and Edgar is close to achieving the technology to allow them to live together forever in some sort of AI computer world. Something important to the project is implanted in the lizard, Roxana. Perhaps the (adopted) sister’s mind or whatever. Edgar does say “I love you Roxana,” before he goes to sleep after the wedding, without touching his new wife Grace btw.

But the couple needs one more thing to make their dream a reality, and it is in the hands of Grace’s uncle, who lives by himself and for some reason never comes around despite his great love for his nieces Grace and Zoe. Mysterious!

In order to get to Grace’s uncle, Edgar comes in to Grace’s antique shop and “falls for her.” They marry strangely quickly, Uncle Ulysses comes to the wedding, and now Edgar and his (adopted) sister may or may not have what they need to accomplish their goal.

Or maybe Roxana is someone else. When Edgar tells Aniq that she likes him, Edgar’s business partner says, “She never liked me.” Not “She doesn’t like me,” but “She never liked me.” Like. she’s a person who no longer exists.

At first I thought that the whole family might be in on Edgar’s faking his own death, but his rigor mortis body is pretty convincing. So there must be some other reason the family doesn’t want to call the police. I think they need something from him before they let his body be taken away. Has Edgar already transferred himself into a computer? Did he kill himself? Remember that Roxana the lizard is also dead. Are they together forever in the cloud?

Is this theory too outlandish? Tell me in the comments!

(PS I rewatched, and maybe the (adopted) sister was only trying to kill the lizard because she was jealous of it but accidentally killed Edgar as well. White chocolate? PPS my kid pointed out that Edgar’s mom or someone might have switched the adderall out for something poisonous intending it for Grace)

EDIT: THIS WAS HILARIOUSLY FAR OFF

The Life of the Mother

Maybe I’m not the first to notice this, but in states where abortion is only legal “When the life of the mother is in danger,” the state still defines a woman by her relationship to an egg that was fertilized, sometimes without her consent. “The mother.” Not “The woman.” And certainly not “The victim.”

And let me tell you. EVERY pregnant woman’s life is in danger. Her ability to make money for food might be at risk. She could be in an abusive relationship with someone who will blame her for the birth control fail. And every woman knows that delivering a full term baby IS RISKING YOUR LIFE. Shit goes DOWN in that delivery room. Continuing ANY pregnancy risks the life of “the mother.” The person. The here-now-valuable-knows-her-own-life person.

This is a short blog, but why say more than needs to be said? We should no more have to risk our lives than the inadvertent “father.” When he is willing to sign up for a Russian roulette of pregnancy dangers, get back to me. When he is willing to forego sex for the rest of his life once he has all the children he wants, get back to me. When he can stop his half of the population from raping (hundreds of thousands of rapes reported each year in America, and most go UNreported) get back to me.

The life of the mother? The life of the victim. The life of the woman. The life of the person.

Chat GPT Breakup Letter

Well, I was thrown for a loop this week as I tried Chat GPT and saw how surprisingly good it is at my content writing job. So it’s with significant loopiness that I share this with you. Just for kicks, I asked it for a mean breakup letter. Then I told it the letter wasn’t mean enough and it generated another. And yet again, “Meaner,” I said.

Enjoy.

write mean breakup letterChatGPT

[Your Name] [Your Address] [City, State, ZIP] [Email Address] [Phone Number] [Date]

[Recipient’s Name] [Recipient’s Address] [City, State, ZIP]

Subject: Our Relationship

Dear [Recipient’s Name],

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I wanted to take this opportunity to express my feelings and thoughts regarding our relationship. It’s not easy for me to write this letter, but I believe it’s important for both of us to have clarity and honesty moving forward.

I have spent a considerable amount of time reflecting on our relationship and where we stand. Unfortunately, I have come to the difficult decision that it is best for us to part ways. While we have shared some beautiful moments together, it is undeniable that our relationship has reached a point where it is no longer fulfilling for either of us.

I believe that a healthy and fulfilling relationship should be built on mutual respect, trust, and compatibility. Over time, I have come to realize that we lack these essential elements in our connection. Our differences have become apparent, and our attempts to bridge the gap have proven unsuccessful. It’s important for both of us to acknowledge that we deserve happiness and fulfillment, even if it means pursuing separate paths.

I want to emphasize that this decision is not a reflection of your worth as an individual. It’s about recognizing that our visions for the future and our needs no longer align. It would be unfair to both of us to continue in a relationship that has lost its spark and no longer brings us joy. It’s essential for us to be true to ourselves and seek the happiness we deserve, even if it means letting go.

I understand that this news may come as a shock, and I apologize if it hurts you. Please know that this decision has not been made lightly. I have given it a great deal of thought and consideration, hoping to find a way to salvage what we once had. However, it has become clear to me that this is the best course of action for both of us to find the happiness we seek.

Moving forward, I believe it’s crucial for us to give each other the space and time needed to heal and grow individually. We both deserve the opportunity to find new paths and explore the possibilities that lie ahead. I hope that with time, we can look back on our shared memories with fondness and gratitude for the experiences we had together.

While this letter marks the end of our romantic relationship, I genuinely value the connection we shared and the experiences we had together. I will always cherish the memories we created, and I wish you nothing but the best for your future. May you find the love and happiness you deserve.

Thank you for being a part of my life and for the moments we shared. I hope that, eventually, we can both move forward and find fulfillment in our separate journeys. Take care of yourself and know that you will always hold a special place in my heart.

Sincerely,

[Your Name]

that’s too niceChatGPT

[Your Name] [Your Address] [City, State, ZIP] [Email Address] [Phone Number] [Date]

[Recipient’s Name] [Recipient’s Address] [City, State, ZIP]

Subject: Ending Our Relationship

Dear [Recipient’s Name],

I hope this letter reaches you, although I suspect it won’t be a welcome message. I’m writing to inform you that our relationship has reached its bitter end. The time has come for us to face the reality that we are simply not meant to be together.

From the beginning, doubts and dissatisfaction plagued our relationship, like a festering wound that refused to heal. We have tried to make it work, but it has become painfully clear that our differences are irreconcilable. Your constant nagging and inability to understand my needs have left me drained and resentful.

I have come to the realization that being with you is suffocating my individuality and stifling my personal growth. I deserve to be with someone who appreciates me for who I am, rather than constantly trying to change me into someone I’m not. I no longer wish to endure the toxic environment that our relationship has become.

It’s evident that we are fundamentally incompatible on numerous levels. Our values, interests, and aspirations are misaligned, making it impossible for us to build a solid foundation for a lasting partnership. It would be futile to continue pretending that there is a future for us when it’s abundantly clear that there isn’t.

I want you to understand that this decision is not up for debate or negotiation. I have reached the point of no return, and I am resolute in my choice to sever ties with you. I no longer wish to waste my time and energy on a relationship that brings me nothing but misery.

Moving forward, I expect us to go our separate ways and cut off all contact. There is no need for further discussion or attempts to reconcile. It’s time for us to move on and find happiness apart from each other.

While it may seem callous and harsh, this breakup is necessary for both of us to find the fulfillment and contentment we seek in life. I urge you to take this opportunity to reflect on your actions and consider the impact they have on those around you. Growth and self-reflection may be beneficial for your future relationships.

I wish you the best, albeit from a distance. May you find someone who can tolerate your controlling nature and fulfill the unattainable expectations you impose on others.

Goodbye,

[Your Name]

meanerChatGPT

[Your Name] [Your Address] [City, State, ZIP] [Email Address] [Phone Number] [Date]

[Recipient’s Name] [Recipient’s Address] [City, State, ZIP]

Subject: Our Final Goodbye

Dear [Recipient’s Name],

I hope this letter serves as a final wake-up call, as it will be the last piece of communication you’ll receive from me. Our relationship has reached a point of utter toxicity, and I can no longer subject myself to the emotional drain you inflict upon me.

I have endured countless moments of disappointment and frustration in this relationship. Your constant need for attention and your selfish behavior have left me questioning why I ever allowed you into my life. I have realized that being with you is like willingly stepping into a bottomless pit of despair.

You possess an uncanny ability to drain the joy out of any situation. Your negativity and pessimism have become unbearable, suffocating any flicker of happiness that I once had. It’s clear that you thrive on bringing others down to your level of misery, and I refuse to let you continue that cycle with me.

I have come to the realization that you are an emotional vampire, sucking the life out of anyone who dares to care for you. Your constant need for control and manipulation is nothing short of repulsive. I am done being a pawn in your twisted game.

From this point forward, I am reclaiming my freedom and my sanity. I will no longer allow myself to be trapped in the clutches of your toxic presence. You may have thought you had me under your thumb, but I am breaking free and leaving you behind in the darkness where you belong.

I want nothing to do with you anymore. I want to erase every memory of our time together, as they only serve as painful reminders of the wasted moments I can never get back. You are nothing more than a blight on my past, and I am determined to move forward without you.

Do not attempt to contact me again. I have severed all ties and any shred of hope for reconciliation. I urge you to take a good look in the mirror and evaluate the monster you have become. Perhaps one day, you will realize the damage you have caused and seek help. But until then, stay out of my life.

I am closing this chapter with you for good. I deserve better than the toxicity you bring. May karma find its way to you and deliver the pain and suffering you have so callously dished out.

This is the end. Goodbye, and good riddance.

[Your Name]

Year of the Rabbit

When you’re 49 and you got married at 22 and you’re carrying your overnight bag into your parents’ 8X10 extra bedroom for the first of probably 240 nights until the divorce is final, you don’t feel great. You might feel a little relieved, but you don’t feel like a success story when you can’t even afford a crap apartment. No matter how nice your parents are about it.

My sister usually stays in this room when she visits. It has a twin bed, two white dressers, and 70 rabbit paintings and figurines. I counted them one night.

One of my first nights here (March 2023) I remembered that it had just become the year of the rabbit. I’d just read an interesting article by Dan Reid about it on the Terry Dunn’s Tai Chi for Health Facebook page. “Well, it’s definitely the year of the rabbit for me!” I thought. According to Reid, “The rabbit is calm, refined, affable, and yet ambitious.” Promising! I have plenty of time to study the rabbits around the room while I’m doing Terry’s tai chi warmups. There’s quite a variety. Realistic ones, metallic ones, white ones with blue flowers painted on them, even one Peter Rabbit.

According to the internet, this year of the water rabbit is about adapting and creative solutions. “You don’t say,” I think, looking up from my phone at my tiny room and wondering how the hell I will be able to afford my own place. More part time writing jobs? Sub credential? Wondering whether I’ll lose the part time jobs I already have to ChatGPT. Wondering how my adult kid still living at home will adapt. Wondering whether my husband and I will still get along well enough to go to movies together with our kid after mediation.

Usually before a new year starts (the December new year, not the lunar new year) I think of a theme for my year. I started doing this five or six years ago. My first themes were Confidence, Bravery, and Don’t Look Down. They’ve pretty much all been along those lines. Once, I was going to pick Freedom but I didn’t want my husband to think I was going to leave him. Instead I picked No Limits and he didn’t like where that was going either.

But when 2023 rolled in, I had been very sick for about two months and could not think of a theme. I was just too tired. I thought maybe one would present itself at some point during the year. And in March, as I looked around the room I’d be sleeping in for perhaps the entire rest of the year, I named my theme. The Year of the Rabbit.

Here are two little bits of background about me. 1: When I read Watership Down, by Richard Adams, my freshman year of high school, it became my favorite book. I still didn’t consider myself extra interested in rabbits, but I used to make myself wait a year or two before rereading it so that I would enjoy it more. (Normally I would talk about the book’s gender roles here, but I don’t want to take the time. Look them up if you’re interested.) Though I didn’t think the book gave me a special affinity for rabbits, I do think it gave me more to think about when I entered this year of the rabbit. 2: When I got so sick at the end of 2022, my doctor actually set me up with 8 counseling sessions to deal with it so I didn’t keep calling her. I was having trouble sleeping, and since the illness had begun with a vertigo attack while I was driving, I was afraid to drive. But a few weeks into the sessions I decided to use the time I had to talk about my marriage. Why was I still in the marriage, my counselor wondered. I will refrain from saying what she said about the relationship, but she did ask me if I had somewhere to go and then keep saying, “Your parents have a room.” Why was I still married? Fear. The themes I picked for each year clearly point to what I believe has held me back my whole life. In this case, I was afraid, among other things I won’t mention, to not have my husband to take care of me. My therapist said, “There’s no guarantee that he always will anyway,” and “Your kid will be okay and this will actually be setting a good example,” and that’s when I told my husband that I’d be sleeping at my parents’ until we could talk things out. The talk was pretty simple. We agreed that we weren’t going to be what each other wanted. I don’t know if he would think that sentence is an accurate encapsulation, but that’s the best I can do without going into detail, and I don’t intend to go into detail. This blog is about the year of the rabbit.

Last weekend, a beautiful Sunday toward the end of May, I went to the Sonoma County fairgrounds for the first ever Indigenous Peoples Gathering. It was open to the public, but I felt very white there. Before I sat down to take in the fragrance of the smudging and the dancing, drums, voices, ankle rattles, shining women’s clothing, feathers, and messages of unity, women’s safety, and spirituality, I slowly walked through the booths of jewelry looking for something rabbit-related. There were turtle, eagle, snake, and elephant rings, but I didn’t see any rabbits. What I did see was a book called, “Animal Energies: Interpreting the Messages and Warnings of Animals.” I checked the table of contents. Rabbit! Page 174!

At home, I read the introduction before flipping to the four-page rabbit section, which by the way calls Watership Down “marvelous.” The book is meant for looking up animals with which we feel an affinity or have had an encounter with, be it physical, in a dream, or otherwise. According to authors Sherry Firedancer and Gary Buffalo Horn Man, the rabbit’s message is “It’s time to confront and overcome a fear.”

I could just stop the blog right there. I mean holy crap.

Rabbit’s warning is, “Feelings need not control us.” Who, me? In the few small paragraphs after the message and warning are the quotes “Is the safety of the familiar, even if it is ultimately wrong for you, more comforting than the possibility of something new, and perhaps better?” and “People tend to dislike the fearful parts of both themselves and other people, but virtually everyone likes Rabbit. We need to look upon our own fearful side with the same compassion we have for Rabbit.” Rabbit who first freezes in fear, and, if that doesn’t work, dashes away in a zigzag pattern. Who, me? I don’t want to type the entire four pages, but I feel like it! Every word spoke to me. When I looked at some of the other animals in the book, I found the messages interesting, but none seemed so meant specifically for me at this moment.

I didn’t mean for this blog to be simply a book recommendation, but do buy this book.

I did mean for this blog to answer everything about my life, past, present, and future. I meant for the search for meaning with rabbit guides to empower me and by extension you. I meant for it to reignite the impossible burning belief that there are answers–creative solutions–and paths, and guides, and, if you can adapt, happy endings.

This 8X10 room doesn’t have a closet for any of my stuff, should I come out of mediation without the house, and there’s no shower in the guest bathroom, and though I enjoy my parents’ company, I know this is probably temporary. But the fact that it’s the year of the rabbit makes me feel sure that this is where I’m supposed to be right now. I have already faced some fears and adapted, if only a little.

And physically, spiritually, and metaphorically, for you and for me, it’s only May.

Manboobs

After more than a decade of Facebook ads targeting me as a woman who must want makeup and hair dye and weight loss products, for some reason today I started getting ads for Men’s Health magazine. First of all, they’re much funnier than the women’s magazine ads. I kid you not, in ONE day they posted “cumming to your senses,” “the short and schlong of it,” and “masturbation myths.” And that was just in the headlines. I didn’t click, but just judging by the headlines, women’s mags need to step it up.

But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Among the ads was one for an article about getting rid of manboobs. And the picture with the ad was a shirtless man. You couldn’t see his face, but he had a little chest hair. And manboobs. One of the comments said, “Those are C cups!” I couldn’t argue with him.

But here’s something I will argue. Women should be able to go topless if men can. I commented that if I cropped the article photo I would probably get banned from Facebook. For a visual aid, I screenshotted the pic, cropped it down to the boobs (just below the chest hair) and went to post it in the comments. Facebook told me that what I was about to post looked like other posts that gone against their standards on “nudity or sexual activity” and asked me if I wanted to delete it. I fucking well did not.

Then I posted the cropped pic on Instagram with the caption, “This is a man. Why is this okay but my chest is not?” Instagram informed me that my post had been removed, also because of “nudity or sexual activity.” (Side note, I hope the manboob model is getting some sexual activity. I mean, what a modeling job.) Instagram asked me if I wanted them to review the decision. I clicked yes. They replied, “We’ve reviewed your photo and reposted it. Thank you for your feedback.”

It just makes no sense to me. Many women’s boobs are smaller than that. What is the difference? Further, with transgender rights at the forefront, will people who were assigned female at birth but who identify as men, or transgender men who have not had surgery, be able to go topless? As soon as I had this thought, I realized that women might very soon be able to go topless, and I realized that I couldn’t be the first to have thought about the transgender angle for this law. So I took to the Internet. One thing I found was a tweet from The Blaze earlier this month which said “Female lifeguard applicant who identifies as male exposes ‘bare breasts’ in front of ‘several dozen children’ at city pool.”

First of all, there are some problems in that headline, but second, FUCK YES. This is what I was talking about. It happened in Jacksonville, Florida. Now this is a Florida man I can get with. But the Jacksonville mayor said in a statement, “I believe it is wrong for our public pools to be a place where Jacksonville families are forced to explain to their children why a person hired to protect the public safety is exposing her breasts.”

You know what would make you not have to explain that? NORMALIZING WOMEN’S BREASTS. As we have already discussed, they are the same as men’s. Often smaller. There is no logical reason women shouldn’t be able to go topless. And don’t tell me it’s because women’s boobs turn men on, because men’s smiles turn women on, and turnabout is fair play. Mask up, George Clooney!

Actually, the laws about women going topless are more complicated than I thought. Most states do not have a law prohibiting women from freeing the nipple, but cities within them have ordinances. Which are unconstitutional, according to GoTopless.org. Also according to the same website I should have been able to Google the name of my city and “nudity” and find out my city’s law, but I didn’t see anything helpful. I did see some results that made me feel like my laptop might be confiscated soon. It seems to me there should be an easily found list of cities where women going topless is legal. If such cities do in fact exist, it’s pretty lame that society frowns upon it so much that no one does it. Even I, when I was young, would have been uncomfortable seeing it. But why?

I’m going to be 50 this year. Life is not long enough to figure out all the crap rules we follow from birth and fix them. I wish it were. I always talk about wishing men would do things in solidarity with women more often. Maybe they could keep their shirts on in public until women have equal rights, or at least this one. That inconvenience might make some of them more vocal for women’s rights? A little reminder to them? Better than having to undergo my year-long pregnancy simulation in solidarity with women who are losing their reproductive rights, yes? I digress. Until women’s nips are free, I say you cover up those manboobs. Seem arbitrary and unnecessary? Welcome to our world.

Dear Women Getting Married, Have Your Own

Dear Women Getting Married,

Have your own toothpaste. I know it sounds obvious, but when I got married, we argued about which toothpaste to buy. Part of it was that our parents had shared toothpaste, and part of it was that we didn’t have money. We went without a lot of things including a second tube of toothpaste because we were dead set against going into debt. Then, years later when we tried to get a mortgage, we had been too responsible, which made it harder to get a loan. We found out you’re supposed to have some debt. Charge the fucking toothpaste to the credit card.

Have your own name. I’m kind of surprised women are still taking men’s names. I can’t believe how flippant, how excited I was to toss my name aside. Once the newness of my married name wore off, I was left feeling not myself at all. His family didn’t feel like MY family. MY family still felt like my family. When people met me, they asked “Are you related to [husband, husband’s brother, husband’s other brother, husband’s dad]” instead of “Are you related to [people I was actually related to and had gotten used to being asked about.]” It was jarring. Of course, this is not even a decision you have to make if you decide not to get married, but if you’re reading this you’ve probably decided to get married, and you don’t know me from Eve, so I’m probably not going to change your mind. Oh God I just remembered there’s some breakup song where the guy says something like “I was ready to give you my name.” Like what a HUGE honor, dude. Do you know how inconvenient it is for a woman to change her name on all her fucking cards and shit? Is your name Mountbatten-Windsor? Or Disney? Or Rockefeller? Please.

Have your own personality. If someone marries you, it feels safe to assume they want you to continue to be your same quirky self. If your hilarious or serious or political or super honest social media posts are suddenly too off-color or too depressing or too political or too revealing to the person who didn’t mention it before you were married, stand your ground. If the you at parties was cute before you got married, they shouldn’t expect you to change into some wife they imagined, superimposed over the real you while you dated. Some wife who acts like a totally different person at parties. Maybe you didn’t even go to parties before. Why should you now?

Have your own friends. Ones who will keep your secrets and have your back and aren’t “couple friends.” Tell them everything. Otherwise it could take you years to figure out what your friends could have nipped in the bud the day it started. “Girl, no.” Therapy maybe, too, but sometimes friends get to the point faster.

Have your own time. I don’t mean one night a week. I mean whenever you want it. I mean “I’m not going to church today, I feel like some alone time.” I mean “I know I went out with the girls last night but I feel like a sunset on the beach by myself tonight.” Think about how much alone time you used to have. This is an insane adjustment. Don’t feel guilty for wanting to stare at a wall for two hours if you want. By yourself.

Have your own bank account. It doesn’t need but a night’s hotel money in it, but have it. Have at least one bill in your name. Sometimes you need to prove you live in your house.

Have your own “thing.” Once, after years of not gigging, I was playing in a band again and a woman came up to me after we were done. She was in her 50’s, maybe 60, and she was with her husband. They knew my husband and heard my last name when the band leader introduced the band. (“Are you related to…”) She said to me, “It’s nice you have your own thing.” I thought it was a weird thing to say, and part of me probably thought I’d rather hear that I sounded good, but whatever. But later I thought, “That poor woman has been married for probably 30 years without having her own thing. She’s here with her husband probably like she’s with him every other night, going with him to his things.” It can happen so easily. Join clubs, enter contests, take classes, become an expert in something, have at least one place where it’s YOU everybody knows. Before I joined that band, it was always my husband talking to people at the store while I stood smiling pleasantly. We lived in the town he’d grown up in and was now a teacher in. (Side note, do you know how many people teachers know?)

Have your own blanket. I think I saw an article about this recently, but I discovered it years ago. I spent years having trouble falling and staying asleep because my husband liked the fan on and kicked the blankets down. Separate fuzzy blanket wrapped around my shoulders, problem solved.

The Bible says “One flesh.” Luckily I don’t follow the Bible any more, because guess whose flesh that is? Not the woman’s. It’s not going to magically be 50/50. I would call us a two-headed creature, but the Bible says the man is the head. I was a skin tag on the flesh of this weird new creature with my husband’s head and face and legs. He was his old self and I was dangling from his arm like something that needed to be checked by a dermatologist. Have your own head. Have your own thoughts. Have your own legs that can take you to a different party than he wants to go to one Friday night. You don’t always have to decide together where to go.

I know it seems obvious. But things happen. They happen over time, like the frog in the pot, or they happen immediately, and you say “But” and he says “This is marriage” and you make your choice. Make the right choice. Have your own. He’s going to have his.