Hi Darling Ones,

I spent most of the week sulking. The glasses I pinned all my hopes on turned out not to be the panacea I dreamed it would be.

Turns out that while I can see clearer than before, which is a good thing, the distortion caused by the edema or the retinopathy is still a giant pain in the ass. Also, according to Dr. Google it could take awhile to adjust to the progressive lenses. Also, according to the wise doctor a lot of the things progressives may make you feel (like your eyes are swimmy, wobbly, etc.) are exactly the same way having a stroke has made me feel.

I’m having a bummer of a week. I went to the doctor Tuesday and things did nt go the way I wanted them to go. Nothing went wrong and I did’t get bad news, per se. It’s that I want the A+ in all things. Diabetes, blood pressure, stroke recovery and I DID NOT get A+s. I got A-s and I hate it.

So that on top of the glasses not solving all my problems has left me mopey. A+ in brooding.

I still have debilitating knee pain because of the arthritis. My blood pressure is still high. I’m still unable to discern signs of legit health concerns (blood sugar dipping dangerously low) and things that are just off because of the stroke. When things inside your body always feel wrong, you start to ignore everything. Nobody has declared their undying love for me. I’ve not discovered I’m some kind of billionaire heiress.

I continue to be broke and broken.

While I sulk, I keep whining about how I just need the universe to cut me one little break.

But, I don’t. I’m very fortunate. It’s hard. Gratitude and sulkiness don’t play well together.My Gemini nature demands I try to recognize both sides of everything. I can be both sulky and grateful.

I just I really just really really really really want one thing to go my way in this arena, but it did not happen and I’ve been sulking.

However, something did happen to prove the universe is wonderful and magical, and I have the best people in my life

My rest of my niece’s Christmas gift to me arrived. On Christmas Day she gave me a box with a soft, fuzzy grey scarf she crocheted herself. I immediately burst into tears. She said, “I made this for you because you’re the one who taught me how to crochet and it’s the first thing I ever finished.”

All of the tears.

She also told me she made a record for me of songs that remind her for me. It arrived yesterday before physical therapy.

More tears.

It is amazing. It has Modest Mouse and Counting Crows and Joan Jett and Liz Phair. It features a lot of songs on a mix CD I made for Jaycie and Max when they were kids. We listened to it all the time when I babysat them and we’d tool around in Ruby running errands and eating car breakfast.

The cover art features a picture of us when she was little. And, my eyebrows? Seriously, check out those ridiculous eyebrows. The aughts were not kind to eyebrows.

This record is in the top five most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received. right up there with the signed Vonnegut and the 10 wheat pennies.

Sulky but fortunately yours,
Jodi

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Dear Darling Ones,

I’m not doing very well. I’ve fallen into a swamp of seasonal/situational depression and I haven’t found my way out of it yet. I’m labeling it depression though that doesn’t feel right. Mostly I’m cranky all the fucking time and out of sorts. I don’t know how to get back into sorts. Nothing I try is working. Patience seems to be the only cure for what ails me and there’s nothing I hate more than being patient.

Thus far I have tried not saying anything because I have nothing nice to say; shouting my displeasure to friends and the universe; eating a lot of ice cream; tons of masturbation; French fries; healthy salads; not showering; showering; naps; throwing myself into work; ignoring work tipped over on the couch reading a mystery; cookies; and Hawaiian Punch.

Nothing works. You know how Pigpen has that cloud of dust that follows him around? That’s me, but my cloud of dust is on the inside and it’s not dust it’s rusty thumbtacks and thistles.

Some lovely things have even happened.

I got a sweet text from my niece. The “I thought of you” message is my favorite genre.

I started planning the return of the Annual Minnesota State Boys High School Hockey Tournament party with BFK. The Hockey Tournament starts next week, and some place deep inside this excites me.

Neko Case wrote about Sinead O’Connor and teased that she’ll be writing about “Emperor’s New Clothes” specifically next week.

As soon as I click publish I’m going to make cheddar, bacon, scallion waffles and eat them while watching the season premiere of my favorite TV show, Top Chef.

All this and yet, my insides are still a floating cloud of pokey things. I know this is temporary. I know it. I know it. I know it. However, that doesn’t make this kind of mood easier to bear. It’s a fucking drag and I hate it.

Impatiently yours,
Jodi

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Well, Well, Well, Darling Ones, we meet again…

After sleeping until 10 a.m. this morning and taking two naps, I’m happy to announce I have survived the holiday social gauntlet thus far. I have not spoken to a human in the last sixteen hours. While I’m not quite back to my usual fortysomething in late-stage capitalism during an unceasing pandemic levels of tried, I have stopped praying for the sweet relief of eternal sleep. In fact, my throat kinda hurts a little today and I’m actively hoping to not die.

Darling Ones, how are your holidays thus far?

Mine have been surprisingly delightful. Despite the post-Thanksgiving sister fuckery, things went really well. There was no petty bickering or awkwardness or passive-aggressive snark. We had a really good time up until we realized we forgot to get our mom the new smart TV we promised her for Christmas. Oops.

We are awful children. Thankfully our mom has a good sense of humor and found pure joy in our horrified reactions once Sister #4 said at 9 p.m. on Christmas night, hours and hours and hours after gift opening brunch, “Fuck. We were supposed to get you a TV.”

Speaking of wayward Christmas gifts. . . I got my 23-year-old nephew a whittling kit for Christmas. Maxwell loved it and spent a lot of Christmas afternoon playing with it. He loved it so much that he was in the hospital getting stitches on the 26th. There’s a reason they called me Aunt Bad Lady when they were younger.

The best part of the holiday has been hanging out with my niece, Jaycie. I haven’t seen her since August 2020, which is the longest period of time I’ve gone without seeing her since she was born. She really is one of the Top 10 all-time greatest people I have the pleasure of knowing. For Christmas I got her a Joan Didion print by my friend and fabulous artist, Amy Abts. We both cried when she opened it, with Didion’s December 23rd death weighing heavy on our hearts.

Later that night she explained how much Didion’s Play It as It Lays means to her and how she found the book in a really dark time of her life. I bawled like a baby while continually whispering, “that’s beautiful.”

Last night before Rock & Roll Bookclub, we were listening to the Family Mix playlist on Spotify. It’s the playlist where they shuffle up a bunch of songs you all listening to individually. My brother-in-law Ben had a ton of influence over our list because it was filled with the mope rock her loves — The Cure, Depeche Mode, The Smiths — barf!

We were all discussing the music we like and have been listening to.

“I listen to a lot of Big Star,” Jaycie said.
“What?” I said.
“The band Big Star,” she repeated. “I listen to them a lot.”
“Alex Chilton?” I asked. “Like, I never travel far without a little Big Star?” I sang and Sister #2 joined in.
She nodded her head at me. “Yeah. I really like them.”

My heart grew three sizes that night, and that’s even before Rock & Roll Bookclub started.

Having all of my people in my house for Bookclub is the second best part of the holiday. It was shouty and slightly drunken and very loud. The Dirty Santa game was extra competitive this year thanks to some help from my cousin Cathy (who once again complimented me on how cool by house is) and her daughter, my first cousin once removed, Lindsay (this is the one cousin who is part of our Wedding Party group chat).

Also, thanks to some post-game negotiating I traded some electronic gadget to my friend Atom for eleven wheat pennies.

Winning at being social,
Jodi

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Hey Darling Ones,

This blog will be twenty-one years old in six days. Send me bourbon. I’m having a lot of feelings and thoughts about this event that I’m hoping will coalesce into something I can write about by July 31st.

I mention this because I’m gonna say some things about The Replacements today and when I first thought about what I wanted to write I was all, JESUS CHRIST, what more could you possibly have to say about the ‘Mats. Haven’t you said it all by now?

I have not.

After 306 posts over nearly twenty-one years I still have more things to say. Fair warning: I will probably always have things to say about The Replacements, and here are three reasons why.

1. After crying through the end of the Sylvia Plath biography again, I decided to do some work. My ass made so many promises last week that my brain and my fingers gonna have to keep. Getting a jump on some things this afternoon is going to bode well for me trying to sleep tonight.

So, I put on a random Spotify daily mix and got to work. “Can’t Hardly Wait” came on about four songs in and I could feel the endorphins rush into my blood stream. I said to myself, I fucking love this band. They make me so happy.

And because it was specifically “Can’t Hardly Wait” I laughed to myself because of a conversation I had with a friend last week. I missed his first call and so he emailed me and said, “And then of course, a Replacements song plays.” Of course, I called him back.

Me: What ‘Mats song?
Him: Can’t Hardly Wait
Me: Best thirteen seconds in rock & roll.*
Him, shaking his head a little sadly and sighing: You are inescapable.
Me, indignant: WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO ESCAPE? I AM A DELIGHT!

2. Did I tell you that my niece, Jaycie, moved to Oakland? The weekend after she arrived, she and the boyfriend, hit San Francisco and she texted me: There’s a bar in SF playing I Will Dare and now I miss you so much.

I miss her so much that I can’t think about it. This is the longest I’ve gone without seeing her since she was born. Last night, we tweeted back and forth about how Joan Didion is her new favorite and I almost exploded with pride.

3. You may recall that I have two pictures of Paul Westerberg & Tommy Stinson on my dining room wall. They were taken at The Replacements’ reunion concert at Midway Stadium. Whenever Sister #4 casually wanders over there, she’ll pause and then say, “I didn’t know Mick Jagger was in The Replacements.”

She does this every time because the first time she did it, I had a hissy fit and shouted “HE WASN’T.” Then I launched into a lecture about who was in The Replacements while she laughed at me and said, “I know.”

Ain’t you had enough of this stuff?
Jodi

 
*For real from 1:59 to 2:12 in this song is like the greatest build up and drop in all of rock and roll. YES, ALL OF IT. I said it and you can all be wrong forever if you don’t agree with me. And that breath Westerberg takes before he starts with “I can’t wait.” Fuck, that’s like a sonic orgasm.

The post 21 Years & 307 Posts About The Replacements appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hi Darling Ones,

Another lavender plant died in my custody. I didn’t even have this one for a week before it started to die!

I was gonna say I killed it, but I think this is just a weak-ass strain of lavender. Once? yeah, probably my fault, but twice? Really? I’ve kept Muriel alive for 17 years so, like I said, I’m practically a farmer.

Even though I really want to grow lavender, I’ve decided to have it replaced with a philodendron. Like I told the very nice customer service person at Bloomscape, I cannot have another dead lavender on my conscience. I have a small vase full of dried lavender on my coffee table. I get the heart-eyes whenever I look at it because Jaycie brought me the lavender all the way from Oregon and Maxwell bought me the blue vase because it’s my favorite color and so I’d have something to keep it in. They really are the reason that I’m never too sad about not having children of my own. Being an aunt is sufficient.

That childlessness has been on my mind a bit today. This total heteronormative bullshit June 2019 article “Unmarried Women with No Kids Are the ‘Healthiest and Happiest Population Subgroup,’ Says Expert” blipped by on Twitter this morning and it made me so angry I put my glasses on at 7 a.m. even though I wasn’t ready to get up.

Excuse me, could you define happiness Expert Dude? Does it include the crushing loneliness mixed with constant financial and emotional insecurity? Where does the societal pressure fit in? How about the near constant feedback that you are pointless and could easily blip out of existence without anyone being effected in the least? Fuck man, life is hard for everyone. My hard is just different than a wife or mother, I know that. But sanctimonious assholes expect my life is all orgasms and naps all the time because I don’t have any kids or responsibilities. Thanks, Jenny, I also don’t have anyone to help pay the mortgage either.

Now, instead of rage barfing for 100 years, I’m gonna tell you one good thing about the dying lavender. No, two good things.

First of all, it smells wonderful.

Second of all, it’s still sitting on the dining room table slowly dying because in the secret optimistic chambers of my bitter, cynical heart I believe it’s going to make a dramatic comeback and thrive like a motherfucker because I want it to.

In the meantime, every time I walk past the table I sing “Dead Flowers” by The Rolling Stones. This is probably my favorite Stones’ song. Some days it’s “Get Off My Cloud” because drums and hand claps make me feel like I have Pop Rocks in my veins in a really good way.

Whenever I sing “Dead Flowers” I always think of my pal, Vodo. Many nights at Grumpy’s he would try to con me into singing karaoke and I always responded with “I’d rather die” or I would explain that I am so shy that I would die if I got up in front of people and sang with my own voice.

Just thinking about it gives me shivers of horror. I will serenade the shit out of you at our table. In Ruby. Randomly while I’m sitting on the couch. But in front of people? No.

Anyway, one of those nights we were talking about The Stones and my favorite must have been “Dead Flowers” that night and Vodo said, “You can do that one! It’s not even really singing. You can say it.” Then he busted into the first lines of the song. It was adorable.

Your queen of the underground,
Jodi

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