Wednesday, January 28, 2026

You two fill my holes… no. wait.

these boys own me

So, let’s talk Heated Rivalry because I cannot get it out of my head.

I have been so good about not watching the show on repeat because whenever I have watched it, it gets my full attention. Kind of hard to put it on in the background and do stuff… I’m also kind of annoyed with it. I found my original Drarry plot / sketch notebook and it’s like Tierney and Reid went through it page by page. There are just too many hockey tropes that writers - me included - lean on, but they did it better. Yeah. I’ve been fighting with the Drarry hockey disaster for years so now I’m on draft three. I’m trying to get away from the tropes, yet still fit in the framework that people find familiar.

Honestly, as annoying as it is to start fresh, the writing is better this time around. Or, at least, I like it better.

I finished all the books and I’m also very annoyed at the people on Facebook who are asking stupid questions about things that happen in the books, but say that they refuse to read them. OR they only read the two books that center on Hollanov, and miss the subtle things woven throughout the six books. Like Ilya colllecting gay people… It’s this whole thing that you don’t really catch on to, but it’s there. REALLY subtle and nicely done.

I’m also annoyed by the Skip haters who, well, skip their episode because they ‘don’t like it’. My siblings in Christ, if it wasn’t for Skip, WE WOULD NEVER GO TO THE COTTAGE. I think the show did the book dirty because the relationship was weird and angsty and kind of beautiful in it’s own way. I have to say that during every reheat I yell “SKIPPY” every time I see them on screen, I like them that much.

The cats are starting to worry about my mental health.

They don’t even know the amount of crazy I can bring to the party.

I could go on, but let’s talk about the title of this entry. Which, oddly enough, has nothing to do with the two hockey players.

I’ve been in a weird place lately. Not quite depressed, not quite manic, but definitely not normal. I’d say I’m cycling but it doesn’t feel like that, either. I’m stuck in this weird off-center bipolar limbo. Even my shrink picked up on it when we met this week. I don’t know. It is what it is and nothing is fixing it. I’m just going to ride it out and hope I come out the other side soon. I thought I’ve experienced everything the bipolar could possibly throw at me, but this is new. And I don’t like it.

This weird little place my brain is residing in led to me to texting Mr. First Guy and telling him I wish we were watching the BOS-MTL game together. We’re both huge Bruins fans and our favourite player is Andy Moog, a goalie. He shares a birthday with Moog and I share a birthday with Bobby Orr, so it’s like we were meant to be. We have, however, in the years since high school become friends. Good friends. Besties. It’s not outside the realm of possibility for us to go to a game together, or even watch a game on TV. More importantly, it’s a completely valid emotional response to watching the biggest rivalry in hockey. (Which, OK. Fine. The rivalry in Heated Rivalry is also BOS-MTL, which lead a bunch of fangirls to watch that game. Whatever. It’s weird, but, you do you, boo.)

During this conversation, I brought up Mr. FNFTF and said how the two of them have really helped me survive through the years. Like they filled two holes in me. Which, thankfully, didn’t go anywhere further than ‘shared trauma’ being the glue keeping them in my life. They were both around when my mother died and they were there when my dad died, too. I know my dad’s death affected Mr. FNFTF because they used to hang out without me. Which is weird, but gives me the warm fuzzies. I’m just fortunate that I still have people around from that time period because I don’t have a lot of people left who were there. A lot of people only saw the fallout from my mother’s death or they saw me hit rock bottom after my dad died. The people that came in and out of my life in the 10 years between just don’t get me. Neither do the ones that came in after my dad. I don’t know how to describe it. I mean, those are life changing events and they really form the basis of who I am. To not see the whole picture…

When Mr. First Time told me he loved me in that text conversation, I broke down and bawled. Ugly cried. It was so good to hear it - unprovoked and knowing exactly where it was coming from. I didn’t realise how alone I’d been feeling until he reminded me that I still have some worth to people. (Depression lies. Period.)

Everybody is fascinated by how easily I walked away from a relationship of 30 years, married for 26, but after all those years of riding the bipolar roller coaster with me, he still didn’t understand what I needed. And I wanted to move back to New England. Neither was something we could compromise on and I’d go so far as to state that keeping that relationship going was a compromise, but I wasn’t willing to continue doing it any more. We haven’t spoken in any way, shape, or form since his text asking how the drive to Maine was. I certainly didn’t go out of my way to text him on his birthday - I didn’t feel the need to. Unlike the other two, I don’t need him in my life and more importantly, I don’t want him there, either.

So. Yeah. It’s nice to be understood. It’s nice to be wanted. It’s nice to have, um, holes filled.

And on a completely random note, the breeder we got G-Man from has a new litter of puppies. I’ve wanted a dog, but I’ve been flip flopping over what breed to get. For $3,800 I can get an amazing German Shepherd. Good temperament, breed to be gorgeous, and smart as fuck. BUT that is a lot of cash I don’t really have unless I dig into my savings and my house really needs to have the vinyl siding replaced. Decisions, decisions. I think I’d rather spend the money on a dog, tbh. Not sure the cats will agree, though. The breeder hasn’t asked for a deposit, so I’m just going to wait and see if I make it to the reservation list or the wait list. I haven’t heard back.

Even more random, Fandom Running Club is doing it’s first Rumble of the year. I’m on a team (Razoom’s Back!) that’s fundraising for Razom for Ukraine. The race has three different groups with different caps (5K, 10K, 10 miles) to make it more competitive. My dumb ass has consistently been doing 10 miles since we started 16 days ago. I could drop to a lower level. I want to drop to a lower level, but I also want to win and doing 10 a day will keep us competitive. I mean, I can’t bitch about my teammates. We all have things going on and it’s easier to do lower miles. I’m not that busy. I can spend 4 hours on a treadmill, no problem. My feet don’t want me to - I have blisters EVERYWHERE. My toes are killing me and since 10 different blisters in that area wasn’t enough, they’ve moved onto my heel.  I don’t care. I can live with the pain. Ukrainians are dealing with a lot worse than blistered feet.

Even even more random, I have FINALLY moved into the kitchen. I ended up ripping out one of the lazy susans and finding some pull out drawers on clearance at Home Depot. The cabinets are much more functional now. Every thing I can’t fit is in the dining room. That was on my agenda to clean this weekend, but I tore the living room apart instead. I needed more light and I needed more space between the couch, pellet stove, and treadmill. The good news is that the living room is spotless and the kitchen is finally livable. I’ll get to the dining room soon. I do need the house as clean as possible ASAP. I’m tired of living like this. It just sucks that my time is so limited. (Also, the puppies will be ready to go home in March, so I have extra motivation.)

Speaking of things to do… I should probably get to my to-do list. I’m hopping on the treadmill for the Stupid Bowl if only because I want to see how Green Day and Bad Bunny comment on the current state of the union…. which only leaves me 5 hours to try to do eleventy gazillion things.

Saturday, April 26, 2025

strong desire to be treated as the other gender…

Why no. No, I don’t look butch when I leave the house. Not at all.

Here’s the thing: I have gotten a metric fuck ton of shit on Facebook recently because I’m LOUD about trans rights. In comments on news stories. In my Facebook DMs. I even had a friend threaten to not refer someone to my little bookkeeping business because I was “pro-mentally ill people”.

That last one? OMG.

Hey, fuckface (yes, you. I know you stalk my little blog. HI!!!!), I don’t know if you know anything about me even though we’ve been friendly for decades now… to be honest, despite the multiple visits here, I don’t think you’ve ever read a word I’ve ever posted.

If you did, you would know that I am pro-mentally ill people. BECAUSE I AM ONE, YOU DUMB FUCK.

Social anxiety? Check
Bipolar? Check
General Anxiety? Check
A touch of OCD? Check
Seasonal Affective Disorder? Well, more like annual, but there’s a cure for that and it’s called MAINE.
Gender dysphoria? Never diagnosed, but I know I have it. I’ve had more luck controlling that than the OCD, anxiety, or bipolar combined, though.

When I was younger, I couldn’t leave the house without a baseball cap. A practice my mother tried to literally beat out of me.

My dad used to call me “his son, [name]” in a joking fashion, but it felt right in a way my real name never has.

I used to live in men’s clothes - another habit that mother tried to beat out of me. Literally. I did so right up until my boobs got too big. (Hi again! I know you love my double Ds. You once wrote a very… interesting… poem about them one night when you were drunk off your face.) Anyways, my boobs don’t fit in men’s shirts any more unless I buy them a tad too big. Don’t even get me started on my breeder’s hips. Men’s pants are a thing of my past as well.

All the trappings of being born in a female body bother me. They always have, but I’ve learned to live with it because living my life as a man wasn’t a thing when I was at my lowest point. I know I talked about my fencing buddy, Phyl, before and how she transitioned after her wife died and her kids were grown.

I’ve been thinking about her a lot.

About how brave she was to transition so late in life. If I had the balls (HA!) to do it now that I’m fifty.

But it doesn’t matter because nobody cares about FTM trans people.

What they do care about is MTF, but not for the reasons you think they do. It’s not about bathrooms and it’s not about men genetically being better than women in sports. It goes deeper than that and to be honest, I’m not even sure they know why they need to force a gender binary.

May I remind you that Felon 47 was recorded saying he grabbed women by the pussy? YET HE WAS VOTED INTO OFFICE. TWICE.

I’d rather take my chances with the trans women than with a cis man.

Anyhoo… Did you know, they’re so worried about “perverted” men accosting girls / women in locker rooms, that they want to do gender checks? They are literally talking about checking female athletes for men’s genitalia.

Um, no.

I’m loving the backlash that’s coming out of the trans community, though. There are some trans men I follow that - if they didn’t announce they transitioned - I would never have guessed. Yet, our politicians think they belong in a women’s restroom. Because they have what I assume are grabbable pussies… I mean, who’s the real pervert here?

Seriously. What it is about conservatives / magats that make them so obsessed with penises? Peni?

Schlongs. Let’s go with schlongs.

It doesn’t end there, though.

This culture of fear about the different? It’s affecting cis women.

Read that again.

IT IS AFFECTING CIS WOMEN. THE VERY WOMEN THEY WANT TO ‘PROTECT’.

People are actually accosting cis women in bathrooms because they look masculine. That’s if they even get in in the first place.

There are videos and news stories. Blog posts. TikToks. Facebook posts. Instagram posts.

They’re out there if you care to look.

Now, despite hating my female body, when I was untreated for the bipolar, I was um… shall we say, unbothered by getting nekkid with men when I was manic. (Do you remember that night? I’m sure you do… since you were the recipient of a - and I quote -  “million dollar blow job”. Too bad you couldn’t afford it.) I’d regret it, sure, once the mania passed. But during those manic periods, I was too busy trying to get off, to make my body behave in ways it wasn’t built for.

I faked every. single. one.

EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

(Yup. You, too, asshole. Especially with you, whisky dick.)

Looking back, it’s easy to think I was a sex-repulsed asexual, even though that term wasn’t well known back then. Now, hindsight being 20/20 and all, I think I’m just repulsed by anything that focuses on what’s below my waist.

Any way… you want to know why I say the quiet things out loud? Why I’m spending money supporting trans rights groups?

Because I could be one of “them”.

Because I want to be one of “them”.

I’m just too damned scared.

Sunday, November 24, 2024

Reflections on retirement and the ADA

I’m in that picture and I don’t like it.

My way cool, super sexy Logitech keyboard has a loose key and it is driving me nuts. Like seriously. It’s the comma key. Used for… commas and playing the Sims. Do you know how much I write?!? To have a comma key that bounces all over the place makes me want to hulk smash the damn thing.

Logitech also doesn’t sell spare parts (supposedly. I haven’t looked too hard), so if I can’t find what I need, I’m buying a new keyboard… this pisses me off so badly, you have no idea. I have a much, much, much older Logitech keyboard that I absolutely love. Love it so much that I had one purchased for me at the day job. This new one felt more Mac-like and since I live in two worlds - I go both ways - this was a perfect bridge. That bridge is falling down.

Let’s see… what else is new?

My buttermilk pancakes are AMAZING. I used to buy pints of buttermilk, but I wasn’t using it up before it went bad. (And do you know hard it is to find a pint of buttermilk? Cooking for one sucks!) I ended up searching the web and ended up buying some buttermilk powder that was recommended by America’s Test Kitchen.

OK. Enough stalling.

We have an employee who is disabled per the ADA guidelines. This employee is replacing one that is retiring (retired now). We were planning on terminating their employment because they were doing so poorly during training, but their disability made itself known at work and we weren’t sure what to do. It’s not a potion where we could work around any attendance issues caused by this disability - it’s a department of one and usually very busy. The company I work for is deadline driven, so if there isn’t someone at that position, everyone else has to chip in to cover and it leads to a host of problems.

Lucky for them, I am both HR and an expert on the ADA. That’s what happens when you get fired in direct response for asking for a reasonable accommodation. And it was reasonable. The fact that they then decided to throw all kinds of performance issues at me - without a single discussion - and send me to their shrink… yeah. I had a very good case against them and still decided it wasn’t worth trying to sue.

Anyhoo. We’re not big enough to have to abide by the ADA, FL is an at-will state, and we have documented meetings where we actually have pointed out the performance issues and the continued absences. So termination it was, but we gave them two more weeks to prove themselves. They spent one of those weeks in the hospital, as a no-call, no show so we had another justifiable reason to term.

When they got back from the hospital, the owner pulled them in and had a chat. Then I got pulled in for the update… somehow during that discussion, I talked about the Cats and how I got fired. How I job hop because I either get fired for being bipolar or I quit when I can’t keep it under control. (I also find really shitty jobs and / or bosses which help trigger a manic cycle…) He point blank told me that he thought for sure I was going to tell him I was leaving when I told him about the divorce.

My dumb ass said yes, I am moving, but I don’t have a timeline yet. (Liar, liar, pants on fire…)

Dude, the look on his face - we’ve had someone retire, we’re probably going to fire their replacement, and someone else wants to go to part-time. There’s a rumor that someone is moving to Puerto Rico to live near family because they don’t feel safe in the States anymore. We’re twelve people - that’s a lot of loss in two months. For a place that never had any turnover. Of course, people age out and nobody really thought that Trump would win a second term…

I told him I wanted to stay on, remotely, and he looked so relieved. He offered to hire someone that could support me if I needed someone in Florida. I then continued to blab on and on about how he’s the best boss I’ve ever had and how hard it is to want to move home when I just found my forever job… but I need to move home. I can’t continue to live in FL.

So, then we had the retirement party.

Jesus motherfucking crispy Christ on a fucking cracker.

All my emotions came pouring out - we really are such a tightly knit family and it really sucks to leave that behind (even if I work remotely, I won’t be physically based in FL). I know I don’t belong here, but I belong there. Some of my friends think that I should leave now and not look back and the other half think that because I’m agonizing over this decision that I’m not ready to move home. That second half is wrong. SO. VERY. WRONG. I just can’t figure out the timing yet. I just can’t walk away from the best boss I’ve ever had.

I’m spending today working on the layout of my business website. I’ve been looking at some books I bought on WordPress, and the more I read the more I hate the idea of using it. I just can’t wrap my head around how it works. ExpressionEngine is so much easier and now that it’s on version 7, a little better on the back end, too.

OK… I should probably get going. That code’s not going to write itself. *sigh*

Saturday, October 12, 2024

Not again…

I aspire to this level of greatness

Can I tell you something?

I don’t have to buy two of everything any more!!!!

Want to see Matt Nathanson? Want to fly home and go to a Bruins game? Want to sit FIRST FUCKING CLASS?

When you are budgeting-obsessed and you realise that your budget is still built for two, and a mortgage, and a car loan… holy shit.

Once I revamped my budget to truly express my financial situation… wow.

For example, I’m going to Detroit to run the Freep International Half Marathon (traveling alone because someone didn’t want to go to Detroit.*ahem*). The airline offered me an upgrade to first class. It was just expensive enough that if I had to pay for two seat upgrades, there’d be no way. HOWEVER, since I only needed to purchase one? (Garçon, fetch me my Grey Poupon!)

Or, how about my trip home? I decided to take a little bit of my fuck you money and go home for my birthday. I have a very broad definition of home, so I’m flying in and out of Boston, going to Albany for two days, headed to Maine for two days, and watching a Bruins game. (We’ll talk about the B’s game in a moment.) When I decided I was going to get my live hockey on, I scoured the nosebleed seats trying to find a decent view at a price I was willing to pay - for two tickets. I only need to buy one, so I dropped what I would have spent on two completely shitty seats on one really nice one.

Or, I love Matt Nathanson, right? I would have had to buy two VIP packages to at least one show. (He’s playing in Fort Lauderdale and Orlando.) I bought two VIP packages any way - one for FTL and one for Orlando.

I FUCKING LOVE BEING COMPLETELY SELFISH.

Or, am I just enjoying the single life? I’ve spent so long trying to afford to keep us both happy with material possessions and experiences… I mean, I got a new car, he had to get a new car. Matching Mini Coopers, matching Jettas, matching Subarus (twice). It gets old. Vacations - needing to buy two plane tickets, having to plan a trip that makes sense and doesn’t have us ping-ponging all over New England for five days. (What? I can do what I want. He’s not the boss of me anymore.)

I’m really loving the freedom of it all.

That’s all.

So. About that Bruins game.

I’ve been avoiding the things that make me homesick for seven years. I’ve been avoiding all things hockey for six (to the best of my ability, of course).

Now that I know I’m heading home?

I’m embracing everything again.

Having an exit strategy is so freeing.

Where was I?

Boston. Hockey.

Focus.

I have decided that this is the year I go full-bore back into my hockey obsession.

Bruins? Of course.

College hockey? Oh, definitely.

UMaine season tickets are something I’m considering now that I’ve kind of zeroed in on a geographical area, and of course, I can’t forget my Huskies. UConn, not Northeastern.

Going to a hockey game is vastly different from watching one on TV. Duh.

And it is a pleasure that has been in lock-step with the worst pain of my life for so long.

Well, I’m ripping off the fucking band-aid.

I don’t have cable anymore, so I can watch whatever I want whenever I want and I don’t have to worry about stumbling on the Cats games / coverage / etc.

God bless ESPN+.

Now, if only those greedy fuckers at NESN would un-geo-lock their programming.

I will pay you fuckers for a year of Boston sports coverage.

Gladly.

Um… hi!

Tell me you’re in a manic cycle without telling me you’re in a manic cycle?

Yeah… it might be time to step away from the computer.

OK. I love you! Bye-bye!

Saturday, October 21, 2023

If the words won’t come, make the characters.

the secret to a successful nanowrimo is porn. lots of it.

As I’ve said before, I’ve never been the type of person who creates an outline and a plot.

I’ve been plotting like a madwoman. Pages and pages of plot bunnies. It’s insane.

Who knew writing a hockey au would actually be enjoyable?

We all know my history with hockey and how the last experience absolutely fucking broke me. (Still broken after all these years, thanks. Vegas put a nice band-aid on my boo-boo, though.)

So… it’s been weird to actually dig into things like the NHL’s Collective Bargaining Agreement and the Rule Book.

To remember things I thought I’d forgotten.

A skate blade to the back, the severed pinky, the slapshot to the nuts (the player was NOT wearing a cup… but that’s a story for another day.), the singing on the bus, Cooperstown, the dentist fixing a broken nose, the Stanley Cup, the octopus… that fucking mascot.

Reading all these stupid hockey romances has reminded me what it’s like to be part of the team, not part of the back office.

And THAT is where my love of the sport truly lives.

In the camaraderie of the players. Not the knowledge of how to write the Salary Cap journal entries.

I almost watched a Bruins game the other night.

Almost.

But before I could change the channel, I had a panic attack and decided it was safer to watch Simmers on YouTube.

I’ll get back to being able to watch the games and probably sooner rather than later.

But in the meantime, I’ve noticed some other things that are changing.

- The hubby took care of Guinness, not me. And G wasn’t a cuddle pup. He was sort of detached, aloof. I take care of the kittens and they are not like that at all. Sophie is still ridiculously skittish, but holy shit. When she wants love, she will NOT be denied. I need Sophie lovin’ more than I would have thought possible. Finn’s, too, although he’s grown way more independent.

- I’ve been listening to Bowie and the Stones. A LOT. I’ve struggled with their music in the past because they remind me of people who ripped me apart and then stomped on the pieces. Somehow, I’ve managed to get past that. Although, I do not recommend singing Star Star at work because it is very NSFW... whoops.

OH! Fun fact: R.E.M.‘s “Star Me Kitten” is named Star Me Kitten because of “Star Star”. Another fun fact: It is one of the very few R.E.M. songs that uses the word fuck.

- I’ve also been listening to a playlist I call BLG. BLG are the initials of the one, the only, Soulmate Boy and it’s all music I associate with him. Some of it is great for running and, I don’t know, kind of… comforting? Yeah, that’s the word I keep coming back to.

- I’m becoming less afraid to go places on my own. This became a HUGE issue after moving to Florida and then having the whole pandemic thing happen. I certainly don’t have the kind of life I had in New England, and I fucking miss it, but I’m trying to make a life here. Finally.

 

- - - - - - - - - -

And for something completely unrelated, I finally got my two breathing tests done AND scored a follow-up with the pulmonologist before Wine and Dine. (I couldn’t get an appointment with the doc until DECEMBER. I lucked out when there was a cancellation for next week.)

I failed. Miserably.

So, exercise-induced asthma is real and not in my head.

That actually makes me feel better.

I have an inhaler, but it’s not working for me. The therapist who did the test thinks I’ll respond better to steroids, but didn’t go into more details. Google’s not telling me much, so I’m excited to have the follow up so soon. Nothing new on race day… except asthma meds. Should be an interesting weekend.

 

- - - - - - - - - -

I also saw Антитіла on Wednesday.

So. Fucking. AMAZING.

It was everything I wanted and more. I had chills and tears. The first and only time I ever got emotional at a concert was Paul Simon, so that should tell you something.

I really hope I get to see them again.

KALUSH is up next and then, in February, it’s SKOFKA… who I only know because of the collabs with KALUSH.

I’m trying to see as many Ukrainian shows as possible so, even if I’m lukewarm on the artist, I’ll go.

I get to support Ukrainians and experience live music. It’s a win-win, even though I hate the fact that they’re on tour fundraising for shit like first aid supplies.

And on that note, I need to go research some more hockey things. November 1st is coming way too fast.