Do not conspire against me, Thursday.

I choose to embrace this beautiful day instead of being grouchy over all the piddling fuckery that is trying to bring me down.

I'm just going to keep saying that over and over until it's true – until all of the fuckery dissipates into, uh, non-fuckery.

So what that I had a doctor's appointment this morning and was late because I couldn't find a parking place. So what that I had to park one million miles from my doctor's office. It was a nice day to walk. And walking is healthy. Plus, I learned a couple of things: 1) Doctors like to drive Audis 2) pregnant women like to drive Honda minivans 3) there are not enough sidewalks at the Women's Center so as to prevent you from being crushed and murdered by Audis and minivans.

So what that I tried to take a shortcut to my doctor's office and instead got lost inside a giant hospital and ended up momentarily trapped in a dungeon-like stairwell. It gave me a moment to pretend I was in a movie – maybe a hero cop trying to flush out a bad guy. Maybe an awkward ingenue who was about to meet cute with a morgue worker. I got to use my imagination! In a dank stairwell! Under the ICU!

So what that when I finally figured out how to get to my doctor's office, they were running late and I ended up just sitting in the waiting room, sweating from my epic journey to hospital Erebor and back, being forced to listen to Regis Philbin on the Rachal Ray show, which, you guys, is surely the exact show they play over and over again in the anteroom of Hell. It was fine, though. Really. The delay helped me get my pulse back to normal. The TV show taught me that Oklahoma is giving out vaccines to poverty-stricken children and that Racheal Ray is totally into states taking control over shit when the federal government fucks up (I don't know. Don't ask.). I LEARNED THINGS, is what I'm saying. All thanks to getting lost and sweating, and waiting, and really loud daytime TV.

So what that when I finally saw the nurse practioner she barely took five minutes to listen to my theories and conundrums, and she was so behind schedule and flustered that she kept making mistakes when I told her things. She had really nice hair. I should have told her that.

So what that after the doctor's appointment I decided to run a quick errand and when I got to the place there was a sign that they had moved a month ago – to nearly the exact same spot where my doctor's appointment was a billion miles away back at the Lonely Mountain. That was fine. It wasn't an emergency or anything, and traffic was nice, and I got to drive with the windows down. So… I embrace that waste of time. I listened to nice songs from a new playlist. I daydreamed about why there are suddenly so many more Audis in town. I ate a snack that I was smart enough to throw in my purse before I left the house this morning. It was a tasty snack. 

And now I'm home. There's only an hour until I have to go pick up the kids from school. So what that this means I am getting zero + zero divided by zero amounts of work done today. That's OK. There's a Teletubbies sun in the sky, the air is cool, I got some extra vitamin D, and now I get to make the best of first world decisions: do I have a cup of coffee, or do I take a power nap?

See? It's a good day.

I will not be grouchy. I will be grateful I wasn't going to visit anyone in the ICU. I will be happy that *I* wasn't the one in the ICU. I will think about how I hope the rushed nurse practioner has time to eat lunch and laugh with a friend. I will be happy that I have a clean shirt to put on since this one is sweaty and smells like the doctor's office. I will rejoice in the fact that my car has excellent get-up-and-go so that I can drive with ease on the insanity that is MoPac. I will be thrilled that my lunch was a frozen, gluten free, pot of "mexican" food instead of a delicious burger from P. Terrys, because this means I will not have a stomachache later. I WILL BE HAPPY ABOUT THESE THINGS. I AM SO HAPPY I'M SHAKING. 

See that? Fuck you, fuckery. I'm making the most of it. It really is a beautiful day. And the most beautiful part of all is that I'm not stuck in a stairwell anymore.

I kiss you on your fucking mouth, Thursday. MWAH.

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The world’s worst, but most dependable, party trick

I have no idea if this is still the case or not, but years ago I remember reading something about how to cure phobias. If you're scared of spiders, you shut yourself in a closet full of spiders until your brain realizes nothing is going to happen to you. If you're scared of flying, you go up in a plane, come back down, and realize everything was fine and that you're still alive, hooray. It's a desensitization process, I guess. Or conditioning, maybe. Anyway, I have no idea if this is really how people treat these things, but now I'm wondering if it works for other weird stuff, too.

I'm having this thing where everyday I cry at least once in the car. I could easily solve the problem, but now I'm thinking that maybe if this stupid thing keeps happening, eventually my thoughtful brain will become desensitized and override my monkey brain, thus making everything fine again.

My thoughtful brain will say, "Oh, hey, this is Vampire Weekend. It's just music. No big deal. We like Vampire Weekend. We no longer associate it with driving back and forth from the NICU (FIVE YEARS AGO!!). We do not immediately smell NICU soap and worry about brain bleeds when we hear Mansard Roof. We do not think about finding the right size flanges for the breast pump when we hear A-Punk. We do not think about the Seton parking garage when we hear Oxford Comma. We rejoice in reclaiming this music for ourself once again! Huzzah, Vampire Weekend!"

The problem is, that little fantasy isn't happening. The kids think I've gone insane. Because every single fucking day I forget to delete Vampire Weekend from my iTunes. And every day when I plug the phone into the car, the first song that kicks in is inevitably A-Punk (because the alphabet is an asshole). This, of course, makes me get all teary. And the kids are like, "WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? IS IT THE NICU THING AGAIN?" And I have to sniffle and say, "Yes. But it's getting better!" even though it's not. Then I manage to switch to Spotify where we find music suitable for rocking out, and we're able to carry on with our epic school pick-up routine. 

I'm not even sure how this music ended up on my phone to begin with. It must have been on there for years and never surfaced until I yanked a bunch of stuff off and messed with the alphabetical order. I mean, I've done a very good job over the years of ignoring it. Every now and then there would be an embarrassing moment at a store or at someone's house when a song would come on and I'd have to bolt until I could shake off the NICU memory vortex. But that didn't happen often. Now, it's every single freaking day. I know I could easily "fix it" by deleting the music and going back to the plan of just ignoring that these songs still exist. OR, I could try to face this shit down. Own it. Torture myself into being able to listen again.

So what do you think? Should I lock myself in a closet and play Vampire Weekend until I'm desensitized and empowered? Or will an experiment like that just break my brain completely? Does it negate the experiment if I take a xanax first? Why am I even traumatized by the NICU? That ended up being the least horrible of ALL THE THINGS (even though obviously it wasn't easy).

Tell me, people reading this, what have you done to overcome weird things like this? The simple answer is to, duh, get it the hell off my iTunes. But that doesn't really solve anything, you know? I'd like to be able to be out somewhere, say, getting my hair cut, and not have to turn into a crazy lady whenever one of these stupid songs comes on the radio.

Solutions: throw them at me.

 

***UPDATE***

I just tried to suck it up and listen to Mansard Roof. I was brave. I was stoic. I got, literally, three seconds in before bursting into tears. It's like a really amazing, really terrible party trick. And, of course, when I tamp down the hysterics it makes me laugh, which is even crazier. But come on, how can something this innocuous have such an immediate visceral effect? It's like magic. Dark, crazy ridiculous magic.

An open letter from Wendy Davis to all the dickheads, blowhards, racists, misogynists, head-shakers, paternalists, Bible-misinterpreters, glad-handers, apologists, and mansplainers

Keep it up with the Barbie bullshit. Use my gender and my hair color against me. Never stop doing that. Why? Because it proves a point without me ever having to say a word. If you don’t know what that point is (and I doubt that you do) then EVEN BETTER, ASSHOLES. Enjoy me, and every other Barbie and Fatty and Hottie and Sugar Tits joining together to kick your collective ass next November.

And just WAIT. If Van de Putte throws herself into the fray, you guys, I would almost feel sorry for you. Almost. That lady does not suffer fools. And you, my friends, are fools. I don’t say that as a boring insult, I say it as a fact. Who tries to make a state greater by maligning half of the population? Fools. Who tries to talk about job creation while making it incredibly difficult for anyone coming up in this state to get a decent education? Fools. Who talks about Jesus and God and Christians and church and then makes it nearly impossible to help the poor or heal the sick? Hypocritical fools. Between Bare Knuckles Van de Putte and my own army of vaginas and vagina-apologists, I might not be so smug if I were you.

“But Wendy,” you mansplain in your dulcet Southern tones, “you have no money. You’re a flash in the pan, honey. No self-respecting Texan wants a penis-less Blondie in the Governor’s mansion. While you’re giving out free abortions on the front steps, who will stand up for the children? Who will protect women from their own traitorous bodies? Who will continue to encourage corporations to dance naked through tax loopholes bigger than the state itself? WHO WILL KEEP JESUS IN ALL THE TEXTBOOKS?”

I understand your need to fret. I do. And covering your fretting with paternalist head-shaking adds a nice grandfatherly touch, I’ll give you that. But also? Fuck you.  

You know what Texas doesn’t need right now? More dudes using the auspices of “taking care of” and “protecting” and “reaching out to” their adorable, but confused, vagina-laden sheep who are clearly stumbling around in slutty circles not knowing which way to turn or which cliff to fall off of first.

If you want to take care of and protect and reach out to the people of Texas – if you want to be the benevolent guiding hand that helps everyone stay happily alive and employed and comfortable, you should take a deep breath. Because the only way that’s going to happen is when you shake my hand and say, “Congratulations, Madame Governor.”

So yeah, keep chucking and telling me how I’m doing it wrong. Keep giving interviews about misguided and naive Democratic hopefulness. Keep frantically gerrymandering and making it more and more difficult for anyone but privileged white people to vote. Keep doing all those things. When this race turns into a squeaker, you’re going to start having a lot of “oh shit” moments. And I really, really, really look forward to one of those being “Oh, shit, we really did underestimate her, didn’t we?”

Call this letter bravado. Call it posturing. Call it willful and ignorant. Call it whatever you want. But don’t call it bullshit.

And please, continue to underestimate Filibuster Barbie. Please write me off as a one-trick pony.

I fucking dare you.

xoxo,

Wendy  

 

[crossposted at ThisisWhyYouVoteForWendyDavis, a new pro-Wendy, pro-satire tumblr]