Because my ass is too lazy to be explaining them all the time and I am sick and fucking tired of sending people to the userinfo. These are the rules of this space which is mine and you will abide by them or you will get the fuck out:

Wolfie's (Original) Rules
1. This is my journal. I run it. That means it's my space, so you will respect my rules even if you don't like or agree with them. If you're not okay with that, nobody is forcing you to be in my space. In the words of an old friend of mine from many years ago, if you don't like it, GTFO.
2. When I say something about rape, I'm not looking for debate. You are not going to change my mind about what I think is and is not rape. This goes for what I think is and is not misogyny as well, and for what I think is and is not oppression, and you know what, basically if I make a statement (not a question) in an entry and your comment is intended to convince me why I am wrong about it, you need to reevaluate why you're here. Back to rule #1: my space, my thoughts, my message. You want to bloviate about why something isn't really rape or whatever, do it on your own damn journal.
3. If you and I are fandom friends, don't assume that makes us feminism friends. I may like and respect you but it doesn't mean I agree with you or even that I should. One of the concessions I make for my own survival under the patriarchy is that I'm friends with a lot of people I consider at least passively misogynist. This may or may not include you, but if you really really disagree with radical feminist theory, and/or if you consider yourself "sex positive" (which is a bullshit term on the level of "pro-life"), it's a pretty safe bet that it does. So if I tell you you don't get it, back off. I don't want to start having to defriend people but I will do it to protect my space.
4. I have been reading Twisty Faster for nearly a year now. I agree with damn near everything she says. If you don't understand why I would say some particular thing, you ought to go read Twisty for a couple of months and see if you get it then.
5. All of which is to say, no concern trolling. In fact, why not go whole hog, no trolling full stop.
6. There is no Rule 6.
7. The Wolf reserves the right to make up rules on the spot. This goes back to rule #1, too--my space, what I say goes. If I tell you to stop doing something, stop doing it.

The Additional Rules That Came Along Later
- Anonymous comments violating Rule #2 in such a way that demonstrates offensive levels of misogyny, regardless of the stated gender of the anonymous commenter (because here at the Wolfcave we recognize that women can and do internalize misogyny at offensive levels), will be summarily deleted. The Wolf reserves the final say on what does and does not count as an offensive level of misogyny.
- Calling me (or anyone) "crazy" is explicitly ableist and discriminatory against people with mental illnesses, and is therefore self-evidently unacceptable.
- You're goddamn right I'm stifling dissent. I am not the U.S. government. I am under no obligation to allow you freedom of speech.
- If you don't like it you can get your own motherfucking blog, asshole!
- Commenting anonymously is a privilege, not a right. I will revoke it if you (in the plural) are big enough assholes. Give me a reason, I swear to god, I am this close to disallowing anonymous comments already. Anonymous comments are not allowed. I have been burned by the shit in the past and you will suck it up.
- THIS IS NOT THE FEMINISM 101 BLOG. Do not ask me Feminism 101 shit. Do your own motherfucking research. I am neither your professor, your library nor your search engine.

IF YOU COMMENT ON THIS JOURNAL, YOU ARE AGREEING TO THESE RULES. I WILL BAN YOUR ASS IF YOU FAIL TO COMPLY: BE TOLD.

Have picked up Homeland again. I can't stay away from these characters, as much as other things about the story piss me off. But I'm beginning to wonder: why is it that Salvatore's fans think he writes these great fight scenes? How can it be that someone can describe a fight scene in such exhaustive, boring detail and I still don't know who's where or what the fuck's happening?

And Mr. Salvatore? Love? You don't poke someone with scimitars. Scimitars are a slashing weapon, not a thrusting one.

I have never had this kind of anniversary before.

I was never close to my grandparents. I couldn’t tell you when they died, except that for my mom’s parents I was in middle school and they went about six months apart, and for my dad’s mom I had to work so I didn’t go to the funeral.

It’s a strange feeling, for those of you who haven’t experienced it, to have another date added to the holidays and birthdays that you remember by default: my birthday is September 16th, Kate’s is September 20th, April’s is June 29th, Dad’s is January 20th, Mom’s is January 28th, Christmas is December 25th, Halloween is October 31st, Mom died on July 25th.

There will never be another, larger meaning to this date. If, G-d forbid, some national tragedy, some natural disaster happens on July 25th, if a war starts or ends, if I make a new close friend or fall in love with someone who was born on this date, or if someone I love gets married or has a baby on this date, it will still always be the day Mom died.

It was about now, I think, about three in the afternoon, that we came home from the grocery store, and we had had such a good trip to the grocery store, we had been in such a wonderful mood. Mike hadn’t been yelling at me, good things had been on sale, it was a lovely day and we were talking and laughing and she was already dead and I didn’t know it. I don’t know what time it was when I got the call. When Aunt Pam said, “I’m Mike’s sister,” I was so confused, I knew from her voice, in my gut, I knew something terrible had happened, but I thought she meant my husband mike, and not my stepdad Mike. My brain went, but he doesn’t have a sister.

And when she said, “Mike and Karen were killed in a motorcycle accident,” for a moment I didn’t know who she was talking about. I thought she had the wrong number.

I thought, “Who’s Karen,” for a moment, because of course in my head her name will always be Mom.

If any of you are wondering, it doesn’t go away. It gets easier but it doesn’t end. You still think to yourself, maybe they’re playing an elaborate prank on us, maybe there’s been a terrible mistake and the people on that bike weren’t Mike and Karen at all. They’re old hippies, they’re free spirits, maybe they fucked off to Machu Picchu or something and I’ll get a call tomorrow going, why are you selling our house. You know it isn’t true but part of you still thinks maybe.

I downloaded Twister because it was her favorite movie. I downloaded it that week. I still haven’t been able to watch it.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say, here. Maybe nothing. Maybe just to remember, to share a little bit of remembering with my dash. I’ve never done this before and I’m all alone right now and there’s nobody else to tell.

So I’ll tell you how easily she laughed, how much she snarked at everything, how she smoke like a chimney and drank like a fish and maybe her cholesterol was a little high but she didn’t have any other health problems, she was fit and happy and living the life she loved. I’ll tell how proud she would have been that I’ll have my associate’s soon, and that I’ll be going back to a four-year school in January, ready to get my bachelor’s and move on to grad school. How proud she’d be of me for leaving this marriage even though it’s hard. For taking care of this dog even though it’s a lot of work. For figuring out who I am, even though nobody is here to tell me how.

How proud she was already, of my sister and me, just for living grown and mostly happy in the world.

I’ll tell you how she is the only person in my family I ever came out to, and how she said she didn’t care if I was holding hands with a boy or a girl as long as I was happy. How she always had advice even when I wasn’t looking for any, and how she was usually right even when I didn’t want her to be. How fully she lived, how deeply she loved, how bright she burned when she was with us, how bright she still burns now that she’s gone. How, in some ways, she isn’t really gone at all.

I carry her heart with me (I carry it in my heart). And on my back as I prepare to leave this home I’ve spent three years making, I carry her love and her paintings and her stand mixer and a lock of her hair, I carry them into my new future and she comes with me. So maybe I’m all alone right now, and maybe I’m not, and maybe I never will be.

So maybe nothing will ever be the same again. And maybe that’s okay.

Managed to sleep until 7:30 this morning. I did wake up earlier but I rolled over and went back to sleep. Possibly because there was another person in the bed—Mike gets up so early for work that I think maybe my subconscious has decided that if I'm not the only one there it must not be late enough to get up.

Lightbulb moment: The reason I always seem to have a second wind and perk back up after we go out for a drink is the different effect depressants (and stimulants) have on my ADHD brain.

( So: yesterday.Collapse )

The bakery here in Mackinaw City is open. I told the girls that if I was up super early again I would bring them coffee and donuts, so I've texted Molly to get her and Cheryl's drink orders. They are probably not up yet; I'll just sit here and wait, and if I don't hear from them by the time the donuts are up, I'll bring back four mochas.

( I've picked up a copy of the Fort Michilimackinac Pageant Gazette for the 2012 season.Collapse )

Today's Agenda:
- morning — Mill Creek
- afternoon — Fort Michilimackinac; city historical archives

Goals:
- interview one of the archaeology students at the Fort
- look for War of 1812 public history for paper

( We attempted to interview one of the interpreters at the Fort but someone else in the group had already claimed him.Collapse )

For the kids who deployed just after high school, ready to give their service to pay for a college education, who never came home.

For the sons and daughters whose parents had to get the phone call, and the parents who had to answer it.

For the parents who will forever miss birthdays and holidays, who didn't see their babies born or didn't see their first steps or didn't see them off to kindergarten.

For the brothers and sisters who will always be missing from family reunions; for the spaces left by silent agreement in wedding photos.

For the empty chair at the table and the empty side of the bed.

For the extra drink at the bar that friends order in solemn tribute, to pour out or drink as is their tradition, one for me, one for you.

For those who are gone, and for those left behind. For those who know this day is about more important things than parades and a day off and a sale at the store.

For your service.

For your sacrifice.

Thank you.

I made the dean's list this spring.