Dear Darling Ones,

Ms. Heck was the smartest person I had ever met up until about 9th grade when Ms. Marquette, my English teacher, pronounced the word “melancholy” out loud and blew my mind. Knowing words and how to pronounce them is a theme throughout my life.

I majored in Political Science because Dr. Meyers used the word “circuitous” in our first PoliSci 101 discussion class and it was the first time, as far as I could remember, anyone used a word I’d never heard of.

Before Marquette or Meyers rocked my world, there was Ms. Heck. She was our elementary school librarian and she was the greatest thing to ever happen to elementary school me. She was the keeper of the books and the knower of all the things — like where to find issues of Ranger Rick and if there were more Beezus & Ramona books I hadn’t already read.

I loved Ms. Heck so much that a few years ago, when University Avenue Elementary was celebrating its 50th anniversary and posted a bunch of pictures on its Facebook page, I stole this one of her. You can see the latest issues of Ranger Rick and Cat Fancy right there in the picture. Really, libraries are the most magical places in all the land, and Ms. Heck was the queen.

I have strong, vivid memories of nearly every library I have known, except for the junior high library. For some reason Roosevelt Junior High’s library brings up nothing in my memory. Did something traumatic happen there? Probably. Junior high was not a good time.

But all the rest of them? Hell, yes.

I took The Tibbles to the Savage Library once a week every summer for years. We’d always stop and look in the front window where there was a bunch of bowling paraphernalia my dad donated from Dan Patch Lanes.

I discovered John Irving’s books at the Chippewa Falls library. I read everything by Toni Morrison I could find at UWEC’s McIntyre Library. I remember going to a reading in the basement of L.E. Phillips Library in Eau Claire where our Women’s Lit professor dedicated her reading to our class. I met Colson Whitehead at the very epic and beautiful Roseville Library years ago with my writing group.

And now, I literally check out hundreds of books from the local Shakopee Library thanks to an app.

A few weeks ago when my friend, EM, showed me the What’s More Punk than the Public Library t-shirt I was so filled with desire my heart fell right out of my butt. Because, I am trying to be more financially responsible I asked the Wedding Party* if I needed the shirt. Within twenty seconds they all said yes.

This is my favorite shirt now beating out both Stevie Nicks and the wise old owl.

I might never take this shirt off,
Jodi

 
*Family group chat including: Sisters #2 & #4, my brother-in-law, Jaycie, Max, and our cousin Lindsay.

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Dear Darling Ones,

I am frustrated. I’m nearly 50* and not only do I still get crushes on men, I still get all sad and stuff when those crushes start seeing women who are not me. It sucks. Isn’t this a stage of life I should have outgrown by now? Why does this keep happening and when will it all end?

God, why does being attracted to someone and having feelings have to be so embarrassing all the time? I hate it. I need my ice-robot heart to re-engage and save me from this humiliation. I’m blushing as I type. This is all so gross.

To make matters worse my stupid brain keeps singing those two lines from The Replacements’ “Valentine” on repeat. Are you strung out on some face? Well, I know it ain’t mine.” Sometimes my brain is a real jerk. I get it, brain, he does not like like me. Thanks for being an asshole about it.

I’m not shattered by this development. It’s not a cry your eyes out while listening to “Someone to Pull the Trigger” situation. It’s more annoyance. I don’t even want to date anyone right now. At least I don’t think I do. I keep telling myself that I will investigate that portion of my life once I finish revising The Beast. And yet here I am, low key angry that he doesn’t want me back. How dare he find someone more appropriate and who knows what they want and is not me? Rude. How dare he not want to spend his free time making me feel good about myself and listening to me talk about the new Liz Phair? Disrespectful. How dare he give up the opportunity to make me feel less alone while I spend my time figuring out if I want to be in an actual, factual relationship? Barbaric.**

Ugh. I am burning with so much shame I picked up my phone to see what the temperature was because it suddenly feels very warm in here and I kind of need the AC to kick in ASAP.

Today I finished reading a biography of Truman Capote and at one point after he breaks up with a lover Capote says something like, no matter, to really write one must be truly alone. I keep trying to hold the idea behind the sentiment in my chest, but then my fucking brain keeps singing Are you strung out on some face? Well, I know it ain’t mine.”

All I want in life is to have two contradictory things at once. Also, someone to figure out what to have dinner every night for the rest of my life. And also, to go back in time two hours ago when I returned that biography without finding that passage and writing it down.

In happier, unrelated news, I got another new shirt. This is technically my third new shirt. First was Stevie Nicks, then Joan Jett, and now the wise old owl. I’m digging wearing clothes that were made for women and have some character. I am not digging how expensive clothes for women are. I think the last time I bought shirts they were from the Big & Tall Men’s store and I got six of them all in black or navy blue for like $40.

Also, as you can see, I’m still knee-deep in my yellow period. What you can’t see in the photo above is that my underpants are also yellow. That wasn’t planned. It was just a happy accident.

In fact, I’m so deep into my yellow period that when the plant store that I ordered my birthday tree emailed me to say they were out of yellow pots I had to have a long, frank discussion with myself about whether I should choose another color or cancel the order. I decided the tree was more important than the pot so I chose another color, but I wasn’t thrilled about it.

Bleh. I’m gonna go eat some ice cream and try not to think about stupid crushes and being embarrassed by being so stupidly human all the time.

Jodi

P.S. I am for sure eating a Tootsie Pop while wearing a Tootsie Pop shirt. Much like the yellow underpants, it wasn’t planned, just a happy accident. After I popped the sucker in my mouth I was all, “Oh, I’m gonna take a picture.” I keep a small jar of Tootsie Pops on my kitchen counter because I’m a grown-up and I can.

 
*I’m only eight days into being forty-nine, but I’m just gonna play up this FIFTY thing for an entire year. Deal with it.

 
**I spent a lot of time writing today and with the thesaurus because I tried to use the word “pain” thirty-nine times in one paragraph.

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Dear Darling Ones,

I got a new shirt today. It has Stevie Nicks on it and wearing it makes me feel feminine and witchy, like some alluring mysterious woman of mystery and allure.* I have loved Stevie Nicks ever since nine-year-old me heard “Leather & Lace” and was all, “yes, this is love.” She also felt that way after hearing “Endless Love” by Diana Ross & Lionel Richie.

1981 was apparently a great year for duets.

This shirt is significant as it is a shirt made for a woman and I am woman who very rarely wears actual women’s clothes.

As a tall, fat woman clothes shopping is emotionally fraught and in my memory I spent most of my teen years dressed like Dorothy from “The Golden Girls.” I gave up on fashion pretty early. At a young age I learned fashion was just gonna break my stupid too big for everything heart. I learned this lesson from those adorable Guess Teddy Bear shirts that were all the rage in about 1985 and even if my poor family could have afforded one they did not exist in my size.

If desire were on a scale, 0 would be how much I want Turnip to be re-elected and 192,825,283 would be how much I wanted that Guess sweatshirt. Does this analogy both accurately reflect how much I do not what that fart face to continue his fascist reign and how much I wanted that sweatshirt? I hope so. Even though I slept for something like 10 or 11 hours last night my brain is still foggy.

For the most part I put zero thought into my clothes. I have a uniform I’ve been wearing for the better part of the last 12 years — athletic pants with stripes down the side and a dark-colored, short-sleeved t-shirt in the summer or a long-sleeved thermal shirt in the winter. Occasionally, when I’m feeling a little kicky, I’ll put on some plaid, fleece pajama pants. I do not think I’ve worn pants with a zipper or jeans in all of 2020. All my clothes are shapeless and baggy. Basically I float around in a kind of cotton-polyester cloud for all of my days.

I wear these clothes because they take no thought, they’re comfortable, and, in my head, they render me invisible. For about 30 years I dyed my hair all kinds of eye-catching colors, not just because I liked it, but I was hoping to give people something to comment on other than my body. This worked roughly 30% of the time.

One of the side effects of my rampant, unrepentant TikTok addiction is that I have developed a fetish for men who chop wood (who knew that would be a thing?) and I might be starting to want to look like someone who doesn’t float around in an invisible polyester cloud all the time.

I watch a lot of videos of women promoting body positivity and showing off all themselves — their flabby arms, and back fat, and FUPAs, and I want to lavish every single one of them with praise and affection and thanks. Body positivity is hard.

Rationally and logically, I know my body is my body and fat has no morality. Fatness has no reflection on who I am as a person just like my hazel eyes or the nose that makes me look like a mean turtle. Like I know this. I KNOW THIS, and yet. . .

Working through my internalized fat phobia and shame is so hard. SO HARD. The things I say to myself about my own body are the kinds of things I throat punch my friends for saying about themselves.

So, I got a new shirt. I like it. In fact, I liked it so much I did some ill-advised begging for validation. I wish you could hear the strangled gurgle I just made in my throat.

God, why is it so hard to be a human all the fucking time?
Jodi

P.S. I found my favorite crochet hook in the couch today. Yay!

 
*this was intentional. It is a joke. I’m funny!

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