Ramblings of a Middle Aged Lunatic

                I’m going to say this once, for the people in the back.  As a former victim, I am going to be speak for those bullying victims that do not currently have a voice.                Do not, under any frigging circumstances, walk up to us because there’s been a school shooting and you think we might snap.   Good God.   Whomever came up with this wonderful concept has no idea what it is to be bullied, has forgotten what the social dynamics are in schools, and honestly, doesn’t have the slightest clue.                 I know we all want to believe that the perpetrators of school shootings are bullied children rising up in outraged majesty to slay their tormentors.   We want to believe this because it’s a simple answer to a very complicated issue, and it represents a twisted sort of justice.   It also puts some of the blame on the victim.   Our society loves to victim shame, because it gives us the illusion of control.   We can feel safe that our kid isn’t going to be

                You’ve survived your childhood trauma.   Many years have passed.   You’re over it.   Aren’t you? But you keep finding yourself back in similar situations, as if you are deliberately recreating them.   What gives?                 It’s not your imagination.   Those of us who overcame problematic childhoods are drawn to the same type of people that once made our lives hell on earth.   It’s what we’re used to, and it feels familiar, even though it hurts.   Recognizing such individuals before we get too emotionally invested is an important step in breaking toxic patterns.                 What are the signs that you’re getting involved with a toxic person? 1)       You Catch Them in A Lie.    The first warning sign of every dysfunctional relationship has always been a lie.   To clarify, we’re not talking about little white lies like, “I feel fine,” when the person has been throwing up, or telling you they love the meatloaf you made for dinner while gagging.   In

                I was raised to regard feminism as a bad word.                   No doubt this distorted view came from my father.   He conjured up images of masculine women who didn’t shave, burned their bras, and protested every perceived slight.   Life was a tranquil pool, and feminists insisted on splashing, disturbing the rest of us.   Feminists were angry, confrontational women who would fly into a rage just because a man held the door for her.                 To be a feminist was to reject the goddess, the virgin Mary, the mother, and not only embrace the whore but own it.   It was an act of rebellion against society.   People lulled into contentment by television, video games and Disney vacations, people who where happy with the way things were, were threatened by the notion of change.   We were riding on rafts on the surface of a placid pool, and those damn feminists kept splashing around and ruining it.                 The current administration has done us a

So this comes under the heading of “are you kidding,” or “things that would probably upset me a lot more if I wasn’t completely distracted by other, more pressing matters.”               I’ve blogged a little bit about one of my exes, a neurotic mess I’ve dated on/off since December 2016.   He made an appearance after my mother’s death, pledging to support me, then blew off her funeral.   Subsequently, he’s popped up every couple of weeks to whine about how awful his life is with absolutely no regard for what I’m going through.   It is all about him.   100%.   He probably forgot my mother died, that’s how little he cares.             I last spoke to him the week before Valentine’s Day, when I finally told him I couldn’t deal with his issues, because I have my own stuff to deal with.   As narcissistic supply was denied, I didn’t hear one word from him since, despite his assurances that he’d give me the best Valentine’s Day ever.   When the day came, he didn’t even bother to text.

Last Friday, my area was pummeled by a northeaster that toppled trees and snapped power lines.   At our house, the outdoor bar my sister had constructed on the patio was smashed to smithereens and the barbecue was thrown several feet, missing our sliding glass door by inches.   Our screened in porch no longer has screens. We were praying the wind would knock the porch down completely, as it has fallen into disrepair.   Then Homeowner’s Insurance would have to cough up the money for a new one.   No such luck.                 All day long, the lights flickered on and off, until finally, at five thirty, plunging us into total darkness for the next five days.                 I was fortunate. I fled to my friend’s condo in Troy, where I drove him nuts talking during the Oscars.   I had to return on Monday for a job interview, and I can tell you, that frigid night in my house convinced me that hell is not hot, it is cold.                 We’re lucky.   We don’t have a well, so whe