In Memory

I very rarely post about anything political, here or anywhere else on social media. I very rarely even engage in discussions in person about such things. I have generally found that if someone disagrees with you, it’s rare to never that is going to change, so you’re just playing with pigs and pigeons. And the conversations between people who agree often seem most concerned with “the show” of people agreeing with them, a daisy-chain of self-congratulations and pretention.

I don’t have time for that nonsense; moreover I feel like I have little to add to the conversation. There is nothing in this world that my post or my tweet is going to add to the collective prattle of people who will have forgotten all about whatever the issue is within days, maybe a week if we’re lucky. My silence is not turning a blind eye or a deaf ear or burying my head in the sand; it’s simply a refusal to add to the meaningless noise. So I tend to only speak about these things when I have something personal to say about what is going on. When Trump was elected and I saw the danger his presidency represents to my queer husband and my black son, I talked about my feelings. When the travel ban threatened the lives and families of hundreds of people and their families who I know and love, I talked about my feelings.

These days when we can’t seem to go a week without another senseless shooting, having our loved ones harmed or killed by some psychotic asshole is one of our greatest fears. Every time there is a mass shooting, particularly a school shooting, I’m just as guilty as the next person of being terrified to let my loved ones out of my sight for a while, terrified they will be the next victims. But then life intrudes and marches on, and in the fray of work deadlines and karate practice and getting the tires changed and fixing the toilet – our fears fade. Because even as out of control and scary as the problem has become, the likelihood of it happening to OUR loved ones is still so small that our fear is an abstraction; a “what if” that is easily swept away by our day to day concerns.

That was me today; upset by another senseless loss of life, worried about the “what if next time?”…but already being distracted by other mundane concerns.

One phone call shattered that in seconds.

I listened in disbelief and shock and deepening devastation as I was told by my boss that a mutual professional associate of ours, and someone who has not just been my colleague but also a friend for more than 5 years, was grieving for the loss of his daughter who was killed in the school shooting in Florida yesterday.

It changes everything.

The abstraction is stripped away and it is no longer a “what if”, it is an “oh my god how can this be really happening?” There is no hiding, there is no more luxury of allowing yourself to be distracted by bullshit. It is no longer something you mourn indirectly from afar; the pain is now your own.

I’m absolutely not saying that I wish this upon anyone else  – no matter how much we disagree with them or how reprehensible we find their positions or words or actions – no one should ever have to go through this. But I do feel that if those people with the actual power to change things, who choose not to, could be on this side of the line, things would change. If this horrible pain was their own rather than just something they could “pray over” and move on –  maybe something would finally be done and maybe no more lives would end for no reason. Maybe we would stop arguing about “rights” and “fairness,” and decades-old documents that cannot be literally interpreted, and bigger issues such as mental healthcare which absolutely contributes and needs to be addressed but CANNOT be fixed fast enough to save the people that are dying RIGHT NOW… and a million other bullshit things and DO SOMETHING.

Maybe Alyssa would still be here.

In Memory of Alyssa Alhadeff

Zombie Sleepover

“Sleep like the dead”…

I’ve always thought this phrase sounded like the worst thing ever. Why would anyone want to sleep like the dead? I mean, the dead don’t wake up ever.

Me? Like it or not, I’m more of a “sleep like the undead” kind of gal. You know – shuffling around all uncoordinated, drooling on myself, moaning “sleeeeeep, SLEEEEEP…”, and desperately wanting to attack any chipper-ass person who’s clearly had a whole restful night of what I desperately want to have.

But people seem to frown upon zombies in the workplace, so figuring out the etymology and cure for this terrible plague it necessary.

Why you be hatin’, bro?

Enter “the sleep study.” My first problem with this concept is that in order to have a sleep study, it seems to me that you have to make sure you are doing a study of… sleep. And the only thing that I can think of that would make me less than lying in a hospital bed while people poke and prod and stare at me all night might be snorting coke while having my hair set ablaze.

Hi Ho Hi Ho It’s Off to The Sleep Center I Go

So inspite of my doubts, I dragged my undead ass into the sleep center at 9pm on a Saturday night (‘cuz no one knows how to party like a sleep-zombie!) As I am waiting in the lobby for someone to come bring me back, a man and who I think was his mom arrive together. The guy is on crutches so at first I figure she just staying to help him until he gets settled in. Then the tech comes to get us and:

Lady: How long does this test take?

Tech: He’ll be done around 6.

Lady: AM??? He has to stay all night??

Tech: (clearly a bit confused) Yes, the test runs all night.

I mean – WTF? Aside from the fact that they tell you all this all on the phone when they schedule the appointment, and then send you a 4 page document outlining it all again in writing… HOW DID YOU THINK THIS WAS GOING TO GO DOWN?? Did you think that they would be like “You need to fall asleep RIGHT NOW so we can test you for like 15 minutes and get you out of here”?  It’s already 9pm for heaven sakes – that’s a rather unusual time for a normal length doctor’s appointment, don’t you think?? So in addition to his mom and ride now being all pissed off out the timing – the guy brought nothing with him. No PJs, no toiletries, nothing. Dwiddle-dumb is gonna have to sleep in jeans and football jersey and can’t even brush his teeth.


So we get taken back and brought to our individual rooms. So I put on my PJs and start unpacking my bag – extra pillow and blanket, books to read, something to drink, and the stuffed animal I sleep with every night. The tech comes in to go over the paperwork with me.

Oh how cute. Is that your stuffed koala?

I’m just gonna leave that there….


I’m So Wired

Going through the paperwork reading about the fresh hell they are about to put me though, I make a comment to the effect of  – who is actually able to sleep in this situation – and the tech tells me:

Many people report sleeping better here than at home!

REALLY? Where do these people LIVE???? Prison? One of the observation tanks at the aquarium? The White House?

So I get hooked up to a bazillion wires from the top of my head on down to my legs and told – Sleep Well!!!

Sure, right. Doesn’t everyone who already doesn’t “sleep well” under the BEST of circumstances and WITH drugs, have a peaceful night of restful sleep like in THIS situation:

And this only shows my FACE. There was more, so much more… Sleep well my ass.

Why Is It So Hot, And Why Am I In This Basket?

I don’t remember doing it, but apparently I pissed in the Universe’s Cheerios. Or I was a very bad, BAD person in a former life. Or I broke a mirror. Or something… Because this week has freaking sucked.

I am utterly convinced that I am not allowed to have nice things. It seems like every single time I allow myself to do something nice for myself, or let down my guard and act more confidently or trustful, or I just relax and stop being stressed about everything for a little while, my life goes to hell in a hand-basket with purple cushions and a little ding-a-linging freaking bell.

So this weekend – my hubby’s birthday. My mom had the kid and we had 2 1/2 days to just enjoy. We ate good food. We pampered ourselves. We laid around for a whole day just chilling and reveling in each other’s company. We went to a cool show. We lounged about in a funky little coffee shop chatting…. It was lovely. I was soooooo relaxed and calm –  relaxed and calm in a way I have not been in a very, very, very long time.

Then Sunday night we go to pick the kid up and find out he’s been awful all weekend. And this is not the first time this has happened. We have this issue where, unlike every other child in the world who is the exact opposite – our kid is good for us and a little jerk for everyone else. My mom was exhausted and stressed and I was immediately frustrated and pissed off. So much for calm and peaceful.

Monday was crappy too. I was tired and stressed and had the typical emotionally let-down of having a great weekend but then having it be, well MONDAY. On top of that, the whole issue that I had managed to put out of my mind all weekend regarding a totally sanctimonious, patronizing, infuriating, bullshit email my husband received, on his birthday, hit like a ton of bricks now that we were back in the ‘real world.’ I still get so angry just thinking about it that my heart is racing and I feel flushed just typing this.

Then Tuesday night, I get a call and find out my bio-dad has cancer. Freaking cancer.

Wednesday: My doctor requested a sleep study for me back on Dec 1st. I have been calling at least every other week to get the damned thing scheduled, but I keep getting told the request hasn’t yet been reviewed and approved, so they cannot schedule me. But on Wednesday I get told – “Oh, you don’t need an approved request. Your doctor can just put an order directly into the system.” <insert COPIOUS curse words, hurled loudly at my phone after reading that email>

Today, I get a call from my kid’s school counselor because my son had (another) epic meltdown because he got called out in class for repeatedly not listening, and said some seriously inappropriate stuff, so now I have to deal with that.




Don’t forget to check out the rest of The Tangent Girl Volumes’ posts! Dozen and dozen of posts ranging from Christmas shopping violence to struggling with self-doubt to coping with sucky people to how I really feel about meatloaf. TTGV has it all! And don’t forget to follow me on Twitter (@tangentgirrl) and Facebook!




Petting My Peeves 3: People Suck

So I’m back again to bitch about stuff that annoys me. Today:

Personality Traits That Piss Me Off

Mansplaining: Before a bunch of guys start jumping all over my shit for this, I get that women can do this too, and I get that not all guys do it. But there is DEFINETLY a population of guys out there who are so guilty of this they should be forced to wear a sign warning everyone. Just recently, TWO DAYS after getting back from my 8th trip to the Middle East, I had this pompous asshole trying to explain the Middle East to me because he’d traveled around there once and ‘knew” how it ‘was.’ Um, yeah. Piss off dude.


Asking/Not Asking for Advice: We all have those people who will come to us and pour out all of their troubles, ending with – “I don’t know what to do.” But no matter what ideas you offer up, they shoot every one down without even thinking about it because they don’t really want help, they want sympathy. If you just want to vent, I’m cool with that – but say, hey I’m just venting, I’m not looking for ideas. I am happy to get you a bottle of wine, a quart if ice cream, and nod and say “preach on, Brother/Sister!” Otherwise it just makes me have to ‘wash my cat’ every time you start talking about your problems because I don’t want to hear you bitch.

The Lord Helps Those…: Along that same line – the people who bitch about the same things over and over and over but never do anything to try and change things, even though they have options. You can tell they just want their problems to go away without any effort on their part. And hell, we’d all like that, but I would also like a Support Fox. We can’t always get what we want. Now suck it up and do something. I have no interest in hearing you bitch anymore.


And the all-time top of my “I want to punch people in the face” pet peeve: Passive Aggressive People. This can mean a lot of things, and I don’t particularly like any of it, but some versions are just annoying while others make me near-homicidal.

Mildly Annoying: That fact that some people will say things like, “Oh I’ve never been to Zombieland” when they hear you talking to someone else about Zombieland, when what they really mean is “Can I go to Zombieland with you, too?” Or they will say, “Wow those cookies look good” because they are hoping you will offer them one. I only find this annoying because I IGNORE THEM. If you can’t be a grown-up and actually ask me your question, I will not be bothered to acknowledge the unspoken question.

Fairly Damned Irritating: When someone tells you one thing, then turns around and says something completely different to someone else. Like, “No, no it’s totally fine, there is no rush at all. Just send me ‘X’ whenever you get a chance.” Then you’re talking to someone else and they’re like, “What’s up? Why don’t you like Jenny? She said she asked you for ‘X’ but you’ve been ignoring her….”   Not NEARLY as much as I am going to ignore you now, Jenny.

Full on someone-is-going-to-die-but-it-won’t-be-me Fury: When someone pulls out the thinly veiled, patronizing, ignorant-ass insults that they try and sell as “kindness” or “friendly advice” or any other BULLSHIT way of saying – “I am an asshole but I don’t want you to be able to PROVE that I am an asshole, so I will interact with you in a way you KNOW is me being an ASSHOLE, but that I can just explain to others as you ‘misunderstanding me’.”

Those g-damned people can go straight to hell.


Don’t forget to check out the rest of The Tangent Girl Volumes’ posts! Dozen and dozen of posts ranging from Christmas shopping violence to struggling with self-doubt to coping with sucky people to how I really feel about meatloaf. TTGV has it all! And don’t forget to follow me on Twitter (@tangentgirrl) and Facebook!

Tell Me A Story

I’ve been reading a lot lately. I follow a lot of authors – known and less known – on Twitter, so I’ve been reading a lot of their stuff. And recently I picked up an old “best friend” that I haven’t read in years, Dreams Underfoot by Charles Delint. And that is when I really noticed – –

There is a huge difference between great writing and great storytelling.

Best case scenario, you get both, like with Delint’s books. The stories are interesting and by turns funny, uplifting, and heart-breaking. And the language is so rich and beautiful… I want to read it out loud so I can feel the shape of the words rolling around in my mouth like butter, and hear the cadence of them like water burbling in a sparkling brook.

But most stuff – like almost all of it I realize – is only one or the other, great writing or great storytelling. (Of course there is stuff that is NEITHER, but we don’t need to talk about that crap).

Take Lolita – it’s a freaking awful story about a pedophile. It’s creepy and weird – but the prose is hauntingly lovely.  Amazing writing, horrible storytelling.  Or Walden – have you tried to read it? Try if you are ever having trouble sleeping. But again, the language is bright and majestic.

And a lot of what I’ve been reading lately is really great storytelling – unique storylines and universes, compelling characters, exciting narratives. But the writing is not “great.” Please understand – this is NOT the same thing a saying the writing is bad. There is nothing wrong with the writing, it’s good writing. It just isn’t great writing. It doesn’t have the same sparkle and deliciousness that great writing does. It doesn’t make you thirst to read a paragraph or a page over again such to hear the words in your head once more.

So knowing that very few authors achieve both, what would I choose? Well, I would argue that I will continue to read both, but what I will read the most of, and enjoy the most, is the great storytelling. Every time. I want to be transported to another place; I can always go grab Walden if I need some word candy.



Don’t forget to check out the rest of The Tangent Girl Volumes’ posts! Dozen and dozen of posts ranging from Christmas shopping violence to struggling with self-doubt to coping with sucky people to how I really feel about meatloaf. TTGV has it all! And don’t forget to follow me on Twitter (@tangentgirrl) and Facebook!

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

So I feel kind of bad… after leaving all of you high and dry for over a week with no new posts, now I’m not even going to give you a fun, light-hearted story about killer bunnies or mugger macaws. This one’s damn serious and dark, but I need to get it off my chest.

This post does contain “me too” triggers, so please bear that in mind before you proceed.  I won’t be offended if you don’t read further.

Also, there is strong language, just an FYI.


So yesterday someone I know and respect posted not one, but two “jokes” online referencing the recent coming forward of women who have been sexually harassed/assaulted. I’ve seen versions of these comments before and they never really phased me because the people saying them were assholes, and assholes are going to say asshole things; I don’t pay any attention to what those people say – because they are assholes.

But these comments – they struck me in a deep and personal way I wasn’t at all prepared for. To have someone I know and like say such tone-deaf things really shook me up. Not only did it upset me that a good person would make light of this topic, but it plunged me into a dark place regarding my own “me too”s. I mean, when the whole “me too” thing started, I posted my “me too” status, remembering what happened to me, but somehow that didn’t trigger any emotions related to those memories.

But this? This cocked the gun and blew my mind and heart into a million pieces.

To understand what happened, some background is required. In my junior year of high school my social circle shifted to a new group of friends outside of school. Having found these friends through the BBS world (blast from the past) and gaming, they were basically all guys. The few girls I knew in the ‘circle’ at that time were more peripheral friends of friends or were dating my actual friends, versus being the primary people I hung out with. About half the guys treated me like a kid sister they needed to protect (in addition to being the only girl I was also the youngest in the group), and the other half just treated me like they treated all the guy-friends in the circle. We would often jokingly flirt with each other, but we ALL knew it was just that – joking with each other. Physical contact was normal – hugs, back rubs, sitting on someone’s lap – but it wasn’t some innuendo of something more than friendship.  Hanging out until all hours of the morning and then literally sleeping together on the same couches, floors, etc. was a regular occurrence. And I never felt, or had reason to feel, uncomfortable or unsafe.

In many ways I think this, along with the fact that I wasn’t the type of girl that most guys found themselves physically attracted to, made me very naïve.

When I was about 20, my then-finance-now-husband and I went to a party at a friend’s house. In addition to ‘my circle’ of friends, there were a lot of other people there I either knew only in passing or had never met before. But these people were friends of MY friends, those guys I trusted and felt comfortable with, so it never crossed my mind that they would be or act any differently.

As was usually the case, there was no plan for the party to end before morning, and having consumed more than a reasonable amount of Goldschlager my husband crashed fairly early in the night in one of the upstairs bedrooms while I continued to hang out. I’d been chatting and doing the same innocent/ meaningless flirting with the people I just met as I did with my friends. I hung out a lot in particular with one of my friend’s friends who I’d never met before; funny guy and fun conversation. But eventually I started getting tired and needed to secure myself a corner and some random pillows and blankets to lay down and get some sleep. This was not easy – single guys living on their own are not known for their linen selection, and there were a lot of folks looking for places to sleep and things to sleep on/under. So when I managed to make myself a passable sleeping space, and the guy I’d been talking to asked if I minded if he shared a corner of it, I never thought anything of it. As I said, at one point or another I’d literally slept with about a quarter of the guys at that party, and this was a friend of those friends which meant he was a good guy and it was totally fine.

I’m sure it is no surprise reveal or suspenseful “what next?” to you that I was in fact devastatingly wrong in this assumption.

So it started with general “hey I really enjoyed talking with you tonight” and “I’m so glad we met” to “you’re pretty awesome.” Which just seemed flattering. Then it became a back rub. Now again – – my 40 year old self, and likely you reading this right now, are thinking “What the hell??? Why would you let some guy you just met touch you?” But remember, this was normal behavior between me and my friends, and furthermore it had been a completely safe type of interaction with those people for over four years; it just didn’t trigger warning bells.

But then the back rub started to wander to places it shouldn’t, subtlety then not so subtlety. I made light of it, kind of shrugging his hands away with a “hey thanks for the back rub but I’m gonna try and get some sleep now.”

Then laying side by side with inches of space between us became “wow this blanket is small! It’s cold in here! Hope you don’t mind my scooting over” which turned into him rolling on his side pressing the length of his body against me. I did think – this doesn’t seem right; but my next thought was “you’re kidding right? One, you aren’t the girl who guys try to put the moves on, and two he knows your fiancé is upstairs. It IS cold in here and the blanket IS too small for both of you. Stop overreacting.” So I just scooted myself over a little bit to give myself some space. He shifted and scooted closer again.

Then more talk of how sweet I was, and how lucky my fiancé was, how he hadn’t managed to find anyone to be in a relationship with, how lonely he was, how he wished he could find someone just like me.. all the while touching my arm or my hand or my shoulder…

At that point I was actually getting uncomfortable. But I was young, stupid and didn’t want to ’embarrass myself’ by making a scene, so I pretended to be asleep figuring he’d just stop. At least five minutes passed and I started to relax and drift to sleep. Then he spent about half a minute moving about and I thought “see – he’s shifting and getting comfortable so he can get some sleep too.” Until he reached over, took my hand and pressed it forcibly onto his now naked crotch, whispering in my ear that he knew I wanted to touch him and it was okay, he wanted me to.

I went from horizontal to vertical faster than I thought possible for my rotund self, ripping my hand out of this pretty firm grip in the process. I shot out the front door to where one of my close friends and several acquaintances were hanging out and talking outside. I clearly looked upset and having this guy hurrying after me apologizing and saying it was just a misunderstanding made it quickly obvious something had happened.  My friend placed himself in the doorway and in no uncertain terms told the guy to get the fuck away from me. After several attempts to come out anyway, the guy gave up and I crumpled into the corner of the porch, stunned and shaking.

So yeah, horrible. Really fucking awful actually. But like I said, I really hadn’t given it much thought in years, even when typing my “me too” into my Facebook status.

But then yesterday – those posts changed everything in a matter of just the few moments it took me to read them. I was back in that moment – stunned and shaking in the cold and dark, feeling lost.

And there’s a reason for that – because as bad as what happened that night was, what came next was worse.

One of the girls, who was dating one of my friends, said, “Oh man, that bastard. He did it to you, too?”

………… you TOO????

………… this was a fucking THING????

And it turns out she was not the only one who knew this about him. They sang me the little “theme song” they had for “Molesting <name redacted>“.

A. Fucking. Song.

They laughed it off. Oh he’s so desperate to get some, he pulls this on every girl he meets. Ha ha.

……………. ???

I mean, they did ask if I was okay. They did keep him away from me until my husband woke up and we could get the hell out of there. But these people, people I trusted, KNEW this guy had done this before; he had done it to some of THEM. And not only was he still at this party in the first place, but they didn’t bother to say something to me? To warn me?

It was clear that they didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s just a little harmless groping and he never actually ‘gets any.’ Ha ha, isn’t he so pathetic?

And so I laughed too ‘cuz what else could I do? Ha ha, yeah, so funny. What an amusing catchy song. Fucking hilarious.

And besides – maybe it was my fault. I had ‘flirted’ with the guy and how was he to know that wasn’t really ‘a thing.’ And I hadn’t actually ever said “please stop” so maybe he thought I was into it. And I didn’t ‘get hurt’ so clearly I was overreacting; these ‘were’ the reasons my friends didn’t think it was a big deal.

And I think it’s really, really important to say: in all fairness – we were ALL young and dumb; the oldest person there was probably only 23. I don’t think there’d been any malicious intent in not telling me about the guy, just carelessness. And I don’t think there’d been any malice in the laughing at it either, just the stupidity of youth.

But seeing those posts yesterday – seeing some one I like and think is a good person making jokes about this issue – it plunged me back into that moment 20 years ago, when people I knew and trusted turned what happened to me, what has happened and will continue to happen to thousands of women – into a joke.

To their credit, when I pointed out the wrongness of the jokes to them, the person really did listen to what I had to say and realized they’d been wrong. They apologized and immediately deleted the comments…

But even with that, I haven’t quite made it in from the cold yet….

Don’t forget to check out the rest of The Tangent Girl Volumes’ posts! Dozen and dozen of posts ranging from Christmas shopping violence to struggling with self-doubt to coping with sucky people to how I really feel about meatloaf. TTGV has it all! And don’t forget to follow me on Twitter (@tangentgirrl) and Facebook!

Flocking Together

I’m at it again. Off on another work trip. So there’s A Story. There’s always A Story when I’m allowed to go off on my own  – see my prior two assassination-related posts. At least there were no death attempts this time, only attempts at theft and minor bodily harm. I see this as a step in the right direction.

On today’s episode of “What Will She Get Herself Into Next?”

I found myself, along with my colleagues, on an 8 hour layover in Dubai. No matter how nice a business class lounge is, no one wants to spend 8 hours in it. So I shared a taxi to the Dubai Mall with my colleague who was meeting a relative for lunch. Not wanting to crash their party and not wanting to shop at the Mall <shudder>, I decided to go to the Aquarium. (No, having the words ‘Mall’ and ‘Aquarium’ in the same sentence is not a typo.)

Who doesn’t have a 2-story aquarium tank & a 3rd floor aquatic zoo in their mall? Peasants, that’s who.

Being an anxious introvert, this was akin to a miracle ‘drug’ in the middle of a long day+ of travel. Quietly relaxing for a few hours on my own WITHOUT HAVING TO MAKE SMALL TALK WITH ANYONE, all while enjoying some cool animals? Yes, please!!!!

So I meandered though the giant aquatic tunnel (amazing), and headed up to the zoo (also awesome). I saw penguins and giant crabs and thousands of fish and a 1,650 lbs/16.5 ft crocodile (those measurements are also not typos). I petted baby sharks and I had a chit-chat with a snub-nosed turtle who I believe thought I might be the bearer of snacks (alas I was not, much to his chagrin). A solid 90 minutes of enjoyment. 

My last stop was heading up to the “suspension bridges.” I HATE SUSPENSION BRIDGES. I am afraid of heights, and walking on anything more than one foot off the ground that MOVES while I’m walking on it is right the hell out. But there was an owl up there, and I love owls, and the only way to get close enough for a picture was to brave the bridges. So I managed to get a shaky, palpitating picture of the owl and quickly moved off the bridge to the closest solid platform available, composing myself for the trip back across. It’s as I was hanging out there, minding my own business looking out over the fish tanks and such, all while trying to remember how to breathe, that he pounced.

He was all nice at first – making eye contact and moving to stand next to me. But then he grabbed me and he tried to take my earrings. I said no and tried to get away but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He stood there looming over top of me, digging into my shoulder, and tried to grab my purse. I was able to drop the purse behind me between my body and the railing of the platform. He tried to snap my necklace off of me and scratched my neck in the process, but I managed to keep him from getting it. He tried for my wedding ring, too. Once I finally got away I was able to snap a few photos as he chased me across the bridge.








…. What – did you think I was being mugged?


But really…


He’d landed on the railing at the far end of my platform just a minute or so after I got there. And despite all the “Don’t Touch the Animals” signs, every damned person that came through that platform for the next five minutes had to try to pet him, poke him, or otherwise touch him; AND set camera flashes off in his face while shouting baby talk at him.

After the second group of jagoffs moved on after giving up on him doing anything other than trying to bite them, it was just him and I up there. He gave me the stink eye and I just stayed where I was and quietly told him I was just hanging out and I promised not to harass him. He cocked his head at me and after about half a minute took a couple of steps towards me. I just stayed where I was – leaning on my arms which were folded in front of me on the railing – and I talked to him quietly about how annoying it probably was that people wouldn’t just let him be. He’d made his way over little by little and after about 2 minutes was standing right beside me. He stuck a foot on my arm and when I still didn’t move, he climbed on up. And this is how I ended up with a 2 foot tall Hyacinth Macaw perched on my shoulder in a mall in Dubai.

The jewelry and purse (metallic handle) heist attempts of my embellished version of the story were not just me being hyperbolic – he did try to steal all of it because “Oooooo a shiny!”, but a quiet “no-no naughty bird” or gently bumping his head away with my own allowed me to keep all my stuff…. Okay I actually had to take the hoop earrings off and hold them in my hand ‘cuz those were too tempting to give up on, but the rest he was reasonably easy to deter from taking. I  quietly chatted to him and hung out. And hung out.  I tried to straighten up in preparation for moving on my way a few times and was rewarded with a not-so-gentle nip to the ear each time. Got it – staying right where I was.

But of course, there were bound to be more people coming through there at some point. And now of course they looked at our little tableau and figured – “Oh look how tame, LET’S POKE HIM.” Never mind that I was neither touching, nor even making eye contact with the giant bird with the bone crushing beak perched on my shoulder, and I certainly wasn’t getting in his face carrying on like a banshee turned up to eleven – because I AM NOT AN IDIOT. These new atrocities were met with the same attempts to bite their fingers off. One of the morons actually asked me why he wasn’t biting me and I said, “Because I am not being an asshole.”

Actually, that’s just what I wanted to say.

Instead I said something to the effect of – I’m not trying to touch him, I’m just being still and quiet, so he has no reason to bite me. This not very subtle hint was clearly too subtle as they essentially shouted “Awesome”!!! and tried to poke him again. He finally walked across my back and placed himself on my opposite shoulder so that I was between him and everyone on the platform. During the next lull he actually pressed his whole body weight against the side of my head, almost like he was relaxing – “Thank GOD they are gone!”

This bird and I are clearly kindred spirits. Will all you people please just shut the hell up and go away?! Birds of an introverted feather flock together.

This carried on for about thirty minutes until he finally hopped down next to me and I headed to leave. Halfway across the bridge I heard squawking and turned to find him running along the rope railing towards me (hence, the picture). As soon as I made it to the next platform and stopped, hop-hop-hop and he was back up on my shoulder again. About five minutes later another large, loud group began to approach and he said his finally farewells and headed off to where no one could get near him.

Smiling at such an awesome experience, I headed out of the aquarium, which of course took me through their gift shop.

What choice did I have but to buy this????????


P.S. So yes, K-Middle, bluebirds DO in fact get me dressed in the morning apparently. #insidejoke



Don’t forget to check out the rest of The Tangent Girl Volumes’ posts! Dozen and dozen of posts ranging from Christmas shopping violence to struggling with self-doubt to coping with sucky people to how I really feel about meatloaf. TTGV has it all! And don’t forget to follow me on Twitter (@tangentgirrl) and Facebook!

A Very Meta New Year

It’s not at all uncommon for me to have strange dreams. They tend to be very vivid, and they tend to tell a story. But that story is always a little “Alice Through the Looking Glass ” – everything’s a little weird and jumps around in strange ways that theoretically makes sense in Dreamland, but make absolutely no sense once I wake up and think about it.

But apparently 2018 has decided to up the ante.”Weirdness” is so last season – we’re into META now.

Unfortunately I woke up this morning with one hell of a migraine. (And before you get too excited, yes I said MIGRAINE, not hangover. My New Years Eve wasn’t nearly interesting enough for a hangover – not so much as a sip of champagne). So I took some medicine and promptly fell back to sleep in an attempt to evict the tiny dwarven assholes tunneling in my brain. And this is the dream I proceeded to have –

I was walking through a store wandering up and down the aisles looking for something. At first I can’t remember what I might have actually been looking for, but I stumbled upon a friend who was like “Hey the headache medication is over here.” (In the dream I totally knew this person and we’re good friends. But the person didn’t have the same name as someone I know, didn’t look like anybody I know, and at least as I recall they weren’t supposed to represent anyone I actually know. But they were absolutely my friend. This is important.)

So we find the medicine and I’m trying to decide what to get, and for some reason I cannot figure it out. So dream friend – he puts his arms around me, cradles my head on his shoulder and starts kissing me. (Apparently all I needed was a little Love Potion No. 9????) And dream me is like “Whoa this seems awkward! I’m happily married, dream friend!!”

But then I wake up. And realize that I’m still in my bed at home and the reason I was dreaming about somebody kissing me was because my husband has come home to comfort me since I’m sick, and he has crawled into bed and is kissing me. It was just reality influencing my dream. This happens to me all the time so it’s a perfect explanation (and this instance is certainly much less traumatizing than the old “I have to pee in my dream…”)

So my husband snuggles with me and we talk for a few minutes about how I’m feeling and whatnot. It’s really helping me feel so much better just to have him all warm and comforting next to me. As I’m drifting back to sleep he asks me about my trip to the drug store – was dream friend able to help me find something to help my headache?

And then I wake up. I am immediately hit by the blazing pain of my migraine and I’m confused. I’m looking around my bedroom trying figure out where my husband went. Did he go to the bathroom? But I realize that I’m on the opposite side of the bed as I had been, so my husband must have gone back to work after I fell asleep. My head hurts so badly and I’m really sad that he had to go back to work because I want him here comforting me.

I rolled over and looked at the clock and became completely confused. Wait, it was only like 30 minutes since I’d taken medication and crawled into bed. How did my husband get home from work, spend any time with me, and have already left again in such a short amount of time? And… I don’t think I went to the store to get medication…

It took me a full two or three minutes to completely come to the realization that my husband had never been there.

I’d had a dream (my husband coming home) about having a dream (my friend and the store) about what was going on in real life (my migraine).

Wow, 2018. Clap attcha.



Don’t forget to check out the rest of The Tangent Girl Volumes’ posts! Dozen and dozen of posts ranging from Christmas shopping violence to struggling with self-doubt to coping with sucky people to how I really feel about meatloaf. TTGV has it all! And don’t forget to follow me on Twitter (@tangentgirrl) and Facebook!

Happy New Year, Support Fox Betty

Support Fox Betty gets ready to celebrate her first New Year’s Eve. You may think it would look something like this:

Support Fox Betty gone wild!


But it’s far more likely it will look like this:

Night night

I want to thank all of you for TTGV’s first calendar year. The last five months have been awesome, and I’m looking forward to more murder-attempts and psycho shoppers and crazy-girl rants in 2018.

See ya on the flip side!






Growing Three Sizes

Okay, so I already did this in an earlier post:


But in honor of the fact that the Grinch’s story doesn’t end there, I figured mine can’t either. I need to come full circle and find my Christmas spirit just like old Grinchy-pooh.

I watched a video the other day by Kristina Kuzmic (who I LOVE by the way) where she was talking about all the guilt she used to have about not being able to make Christmas “special enough” for her kids. She basically points out that this line of thinking is total Mommy-guilt BS our dumb brains tell us is true. **WE** are what makes Christmas special for our kids. For some reason I was thinking about that video this morning as I drove to work. When I think about Christmas during my childhood – what do I remember?

My Number One Christmas Memory

Literally the FIRST thing I think of when I think of Christmas during my childhood is this light-up ceramic church my grandmother had. It had these plastic-grain “stained glass” windows and played tinny Christmas music when you wound it. I remember just laying there after it got dark looking at it and the pretty colored light it shone onto the walls. I doubt it was anything expensive at all, but it was magical to me. It makes me sad that it never made it into my or my mom’s possession after my grandmother passed away.

Other Christmas Memories

Cookies. Cookies and MORE COOKIES. My grandmother and mom would start baking way in advance of Christmas and NO JOKE they would make like a 1,000+ cookies by the time they were done. My grandmother would store them in the garage (since it was cool out there). When I close my eyes I can picture it like I’m standing right there today –  shelves and shelves and shelves of mustard-yellow lidded Tupperware containers (some of which I still have to this day) full of cookies.

Getting to sit on the “good” furniture because that was the room the Christmas Tree was in. My grandmother was a good Italian; of course she had a room that no one was allowed to sit in.

The dried-macaroni wreath. Italian grandmother. Enough said.

The bottle cap Christmas Tree. See dried-macaroni wreath.

The Christmas Night Party. Every Christmas, after dinner, my grandparents threw a big party for neighbors and friends with all kinds of “snacks” (see aforementioned Italian grandmother and you will know why snacks is in quotation marks). You might think I remember this because it was a fun night when I got to run around and play while the adults kibitzed. But you’d be wrong ‘cuz none of them had young kids so there really wasn’t anyone to play with. It was just something that happened every year – it’s was Christmas.

Christmas dinner was lasagna. You might think this was because it was some kind of Italian tradition or something, but it isn’t. We had lasagna for dinner because my grandmother could make it in advance and freeze individual portions in these frosted glass containers she had and reheat them on Christmas day, because she was too busy getting ready for the party to cook dinner.

Loose change & rolls of pennies. My grandmother calculated to the PENNY how much she spent on Christmas gifts and everyone at the same “level” had to get exactly the same amount. My mom and Uncle – same amount. My stepdad and my Uncle’s wife – same amount. Me and my cousins – same amount. So she would wrap rolls of pennies, or loose change to ensure the amount was exactly equal. I will never forget the look of utter confusion on my husband’s face the first Christmas he spent with my family. My mom and I just about peed ourselves laughing at his utter bewilderment when he opened a package to find roll of pennies and like 32 cents in loose change.


And as for the “holiday season” leading into Christmas –  unless I am forgetting it entirely, there were no trips to reindeer farms, or breakfasts with Santa , or Christmas crafting extravaganzas, or going to see big light displays, or trips to the Nutcracker, or trips to the Christmas tree farm (fake tree!), or any of the other holiday season activities that we now seem to think are absolutely necessary to make our kids’ holiday special. I did (usually? always? I don’t even remember) do the whole mall Santa thing, but the rest of the month was just my family getting ready for the holidays.

As for presents, I do remember getting my first Cabbage Patch doll, and I remember getting my bike. I have no clear memory of opening a single other present I got (and I was an only child, so I got a lot of really awesome stuff). And honestly, I only remember those presents if I stop and try to remember opening gifts. It’s just not an integral part of my memories of Christmas.

So clearly, Kristina is right.


So what about you? What do you remember most? I hope you’ll share some of your memories in the comments section!


Don’t forget to check out the rest of The Tangent Girl Volumes’ posts! Dozen and dozen of posts ranging from Christmas shopping violence to struggling with self-doubt to coping with sucky people to how I really feel about meatloaf. TTGV has it all! And don’t forget to follow me on Twitter (@tangentgirrl) and Facebook!