So, this year I intend to:

• Finish my book of short stories and, possibly, start shopping it around.
• Run a half marathon distance, if not an actual race
• Read more
• Write more
• Drink exactly as much, because it seems to be working for me

Happy new year, friends.

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Adam’s sister got married in October. Here is Adam (and his teeth) in a suit at the wedding. I managed to get this one shot before my camera died before the ceremony even began. Whoops.

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Here’s my sister’s snake eating dinner when we visited for Thanksgiving. Usually, when I go home to visit my family, my mother has at least one chore waiting to be done. This time, it was feeding the snake. Also, I just wanted to post these awesome photos because I knew they would squick people out. I think snakes are marvelous.

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Here’s me with Indiana at our kitchen table. I’m trying to work. He isn’t letting me. Since this photograph was taken, I’ve colored my hair (much to my mother’s chagrine) and also had some bangs cut in, if you’re interested.

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And here’s Hunter, wishing you and yours a happy holiday.

“I Get Talked To Every Goddamn Day By Strangers Who Make Me Uncomfortable And I Fucking Hate It.”

But that wasn’t as catchy.

My female (and female-identified) friends and I have been talking about this subject a lot lately. This blog post went (semi?) viral last week (at least, among our crowd, so I assume, among others as well), about the street-level sexual harassment that women and those identified as women (and sometimes men) endure.

Because, here’s the thing. It happens a lot. Here are a few things that have been said to me recently:

• Hey, why aren’t you smiling?
• What’re you reading? You look smart.
• You’re really pretty.
• Don’t be a snob, talk to me.
• You think you’re too good to talk to me?
• Where are you going all dressed up like that?
• You got a boyfriend?

Or, my personal favorite:

• NICE BOOBS! as shouted from a yellow school bus.

A fucking school bus. I got hollered at by a child on a school bus. That’s how ingrained this problem is. Even children know that yelling at women and disrespecting their bodies is a thing to do. And a thing for which, for the most part, women have little recourse.

Because what people (read: mostly men, but sometimes also women) who haven’t experienced this don’t understand is that most of the time, even when it’s not meant to be threatening, it feels that way. Because I am keenly aware that if I don’t smile and nod and be a nice person (because, I like to think, I am a nice person) and have a conversation, it can and will and does escalate. It is no longer marginally irritating and also kind of icky, it puts my body in physical danger.

I am also aware that no one will help me if that happens. Because it has happened. Does happen. Happens all the time.

Street level sexual harassment can be as simple as an unwanted compliment when I have earbuds in and clearly no desire to talk. It can be grabbing my arm (happens), trying to hold my hand (happens), following me (happens a lot), and, in some cases, it can be actual violent assault or rape.

The advice we get is usually something like “Don’t engage them,” or “walk away.” But what if you’re literally trapped on bus by a man who outweighs you by 100 pounds? What if you’re wearing heels that hurt and you physically can’t run? What it you are afraid that a person will follow you to your apartment and force their way?

What if you’re just a human being who wants to get from point A to point B without someone saying something to you because believe me, it gets really old to assume every single person who makes eye contact with you will have a comment to make about your appearance because it’s true?

So what I want to say is this:

Women, speak up. Tweet about it. Put it on Facebook. Take an Instagram photo of your harasser. Tell the driver. Ask a beat cop to walk with you for a little while. Call a friend. Tell someone. The fact that those who haven’t experienced this aren’t aware of its prevalence is a huge part of the problem. Tell someone. It’s not your fault, but staying silent won’t save you.

Men, be better. Here’s the thing about sexual harassment–it usually comes from men. Which means the same mouth that men eat with, kiss with, drink with, and breathe with can also the the mouth that they change sexual harassment with. Men have the option to either:

1. Not sexually harass women. If a woman is on the bus, assume she’s there to travel somewhere. If a woman is at the store, assume she needs groceries. If a woman is at the bar, assume she’s there to drink unless she explicitly tells you otherwise. Assume that she is not there to talk to you, no matter how friendly you are. And male readers, if you start to mansplain to me about how this is wrong, go look in a mirror. Are you a man? Yes? Then don’t tell me that I’m wrong because I am not a man, I am just a woman who gets talked to/hit on/cat-called/harassed too much.
2. Speak up when someone else is sexually harassing a woman. See a creep on a bus talking to a woman who is not into it? A guy at a bar who is trying to coerce a drunk woman to come up when she is clearly too inebriated to consent?  Step in. Male-to-male conversation on this topic is very salient. Be an ally. Like the government says: See something, say something.

This week (and maybe beyond), I’m going to Tweet every incidence of sexual harassment I encounter on the street/bus/wherever. I urge all of my friends to do the same. Because truly, like Aurdre Lorde said (that’s whose quote the title is, in case you didn’t take enough women’s/gender/racial/LGBTQ studies classes), it’s a learning process. We already know that this is wrong, but we’re learning how to end it.

Image: Mine, from last year’s SlutWalk

Unmarried and OK with it.

The reason I don’t update this blog as much as I should is that, as a professional in the area of internet writing, there’s almost always either a.) a better/more public/more lucrative place to write most of the things I’m thinking or curious about, or b.) a short story/novel/poem that would be better suited. But this topic is something that I’ve had spinning around in my gourd for, oh, years, and there’s nowhere more fitting to write it than here. And so, here it is.

Adam and I have a trouble with titles.

We have been together for about four years (give or take), and have lived together in three different apartments. After a year of living in the same place, we’ve just renwed our lease. We have two dogs–one that I came with, and one that we adopted together–a bit of furniture, and some merged finances and responsibilities. For all intents and purposes, are cooperative partners in all matters.

However, we are unmarried. This leaves us in a linguistic lurch.

When I meet someone or he starts a new job or we attend a function together, to refer to each other as “my boyfriend” or “my girlfriend” just doesn’t feel accurate. That is, the description that 14-year-olds who attend homecoming together is the same one that I am expected to use to refer to my non-legally-bound life partner. So, often, we refer to each other as “my partner.” Which frequently leads people to assume that we are involved with someone of the same sex. Or that we are snotty middle-class assholes. We have no problem with either of these assumptions.

Now imagine if I were to be hit by a car while crossing the street. My boyfriend could not visit my bedside. My husband could.

Marriage would not only provide legal protections and recognitions, but also the social security and understanding that we are very seriously involved. And while that security might be nice, for us, it doesn’t make sense to pursue it just yet. Largely because it’s not something that everyone can pursue, and that doesn’t feel right.

We are keenly aware that even having this decision is a privilege of status, gender, and sexual orientation. Even having the choice is a mark of access, ability, and acceptance.

Which is why I’ve spent a considerable amount of time campaigning for and educating people about Referendum 74, something that all Washington State voters will have on their ballots come November. Ref. 74 will uphold a law passed in the spring of this year by our Governor that will civil permit same-sex marriages in our state.  Ref. 74 will, if passed, allow everyone in our state to have the same dilemma–because it will allow everyone in our state the ability to have the choice.

If you’re still undecided on how to vote, think about why you yourself might want to get married–and think about titles. Think about what it means to be a person who is married, as opposed to someone with a boyfriend or a partner. Think about how you would feel if you didn’t have the choice–if your relationship could never be validated in that way.

My trouble with titles is a dopey, straight, cisgendered, white-kid problem. But for a lot of loving, committed couples across this fine state, it’s quite a bit more serious than that.

We went camping this weekend in the Olympic National Forest. Aside from nearly being eaten by a bear (have you ever run into a bear while hiking? It’s not an experience I’d had before), it was pretty wonderful. And actually, the bear part wasn’t bad, either.

See the rest at my Flickr page.

Here are some snuggling meerkats.

Some days, the thought of being around people and celebrating and making merriment feels impossible. Today was a day like that, so instead, we spent it with animals. Here are some photos from our trip to the Woodland Park Zoo, which is a wonderful, wonderful place.

To become a person who feels that murdering another person is worth whatever the cost–jail time, your own life, actual financial reparations, the soul, life in eternal damnation, whatever–some other things must have failed you, must have gone wrong. Maybe it’s circumstantial, maybe it’s faulty wiring in the brain, but for whatever reason, you made a series of decisions, including gun ownership, which ended with that retraction of the finger.

And I don’t believe that fixing gun laws will fix all the rest of that.

- a heartbeat at my feet.
–edith wharton

Here is an outdated and unflattering photo of the three of us. Is there any other kind?

My brother and sister were born five years and five days apart. I am in the middle. Today is my sister’s birthday, and five days ago, it was my brother’s birthday. They are both very good people, and I am very blessed to be related to them. But more than that, I’m very blessed to be friends with them.

Maybe it was because we grew up without, financially speaking, much at all. Maybe it was because, in spite of that, my parents did an amazing job of ensuring that we never wanted for anything, including encouragement and love and inspiration. Maybe it was that we spent a lot of time together because, when you’re poor, you take care of each other. You walk each other to school. You spend long summer days in the yard together. You sit together while you eat school breakfast in the nearly-deserted cafeteria 30 minutes before school even starts. Later, you drive to school together. If your parents are resourceful, you don’t really “vacation” together, but you do go camping together. Probably it is all of those reasons.

The thing about siblings is that, with them, you have the choice whether or not you are going to be just siblings, or actual friends. At least, as an adult you do. You can putter in and out of each other’s lives. You can see each other just once or twice per year, and remain cordial, and let that be enough. Or you can be friends.

I don’t have many friends who still live in the town where I grew up–except two, and both of them are related to me. And that’s enough to keep me heading south every chance I get. In my dream life, the three of us actually get to live in the same city. I’m not sure if that is realistic–mostly based on my own self-serving decision to live somewhere else in hopes of having the career I want, which is something I struggle with–but I like to think about it.

My siblings and I share a lot–more than just genes, though those are important–and each year, just as winter finally relents and magnolias bloom and it becomes spring and my siblings both round into another year of life, it’s nice to think about how lucky that is. For me, certainly, and, I hope, for them, too.

Cover by the irritatingly talented J. Adam Brinson

Actually, I’ve written two, but one was, as a very kind person put it, “about three good short stories’ worth, and then a lot of filler.” Which is, I would say, an accurate description.

But the other is, if not actively good, at least not actively bad, either. And it was just sitting in my Google docs, like an old towel left out in the rain–getting crusty and bleached and weird, but still useful with a little cleaning up. And I sometimes have the honor of writing for a very excellent literary and writer-ly website, who was kind enough to let me do a little experiment with the Kindle Direct publishing platform and call it a column.

Wasn’t that nice?

So, I did. My Dad did me a favor and read the book and offered editorial advice (thanks, Dad!) and my boyfriend made me a cover with my own photograph an I cobbled together a copyright and now it is for sale on Amazon. For the very reasonable price of $4.99. Won’t you consider making a purchase?

And if you’re interested in Kindle publishing (and my experience with it), do check out the article I wrote–and keep your eyes peeled for the next one.

Over & out.