Airport 2: the return

The return always sucks. It does. Firstly you have ‘the leaving’ which is a punch in the gut.

What? I have to leave? This doesn’t go on for ever and ever? I can’t just sit and reminisce every night while the fireflies dance? No? HOW DARE YOU interject reality and flight delays into my idyll?! How fucking daaaaaare you.

But I’m here again, I’ve done this before, the leaving. It doesn’t get better and I find myself looking for ways of escaping the mundane and the daily. Its only 24 hours later. One of the ways I tried to shake it up was going to the ER for six hours last night. This was not a good idea, but my brain spent a hell of a lot of time convincing itself that I was going to go septic from an infection and die without seeing my kids again. (they are at their dad’s this whole week for their once a year ‘whole week’ with their dad.)

This is most definitely not a good way to escape, and I would not suggest this to anyone, for any reason. Between the airport and the ER, I have seen the tops and bottoms of humanity. Literally. ALthough I suppose the 1 percent at both ends don’t use public airports. true. My brain, i think, leapt on the opportunity that having the kids all tucked away provides. All of a sudden, she did the math, realized she was working every other day this week and the timesuck could only be squeezed in to the one spot, directly after disembarking. One must schedule these emergencies, you see.

you can take the kids away from the mother, but you cannot take the mother out of the mother.

Its only been a little over 24 hours since I left and I’m bumming. I spent more time with a lot of Wisconsin nurses than you’d ever believe, and it was lovely, and I have a new appreciation for how different cultures can be within a group that looks ‘just like the other one’. Nope. Not the same. I ate cheese curds and learned how to make a mojito. Very delicious, I might add. My suggestion is white rum. Or leave it out and just have the rest. Very delicious.

I miss my best friend and wish I could see her more than once a year. But I think we are lucky we can both swing that, so I guess I’ll rest there, in the morass of humanity crawling and flying at all the different stages.

And maybe I’ll get caught up on the laundry. or that book I’m supposed to be writing.

man in blue crew neck shirt wearing black framed eyeglasses
Yeah, you know this guy had to hold this pose *just too long. Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on


So I spent a handful of hours in a freefall of being triggered by old stuff this week. I’m trying to distance myself from the actual person involved, and just talk about the sensations. Its not easy, frankly, as there are so many parts of me that place blame squarely at his plate. And while it is true that he is unsufferably certain of my unimportance, or irrelevance, it is up to me to see that as a problem he has, not proof that I am those things.

You get this?

Man, am I a work in progress…. shit, man. I keep thinking I’m done, I’m through being crippled by my own thoughts, and then whamm-o, a sinkhole. I know I’m a thousand times better, I am. I’m not carrying the anxiety on my shoulders, I’m not afraid all the time. I’m lucky enough to have a sister who is a social worker with years of therapy under her belt who can call me out of a spiral so well. Very lucky.

I’ve planted hundreds of seeds guys, and the metaphor is with me. There is so much growth happening, in the tiniest of ways and the germination rate is 93%. Get that? All these tiny things, 93% of them grow into something. So keep planting. Keep on keeping on.

On a side note, I’m going to have a shit ton of habanada pepper plants. A shit ton.

Let me know if you have need of a habanada pepper plant. I’ve got a SHIT TON.

love you, and that’s where I’m at. Love. I’m resting on that laurel, baby.

  • kate
woman in white shirt and brown hat sitting on purple flower field
THIS IS NOT ME< THIS IS NOT WHAT I HAVE GOING ON, believe me very very much.
Photo by Anastasia Shuraeva on

Tidal changes. (day three of nablowrimo)

Lets talk perimenopause, shall we?



so. my whole menstrual life i was super regular. like, predictable as old yeller dying or old faithful, the geyser in yellowstone… (and it was only ever three days long, she says with kindof shame when she knows how much tougher it is for so many) … it was a joy. well, okay, not a joy exactly, but i could tell by my mood what was coming, found relief when it arrived because my emotions would settle soon, and when it finished, i had a burst of productive energy. I could bet my money on it. bake my cookies, etc.

And then we come to 47. This is the year of skipped months, ten days of bleeding, cramps again, holy hell of not knowing when it is ever going to end. this month, i have had two ten day long periods, and i honestly don’t even know where the blood is coming from. you’d think I’d be super skinny because my body is pumping blood out my wahoo, but no. no i am not. I have no idea how to find productive days anymore, but they do just arrive. (yes, my dr. is in contact with me and yes, this is all normal. can you fucking believe that? Normal?!)

I’ve started to read up on it because its leaving me a mushy mess, and so tired, and confused. and often, sad, and then angry. So, eat your cruciferous foods, and avocado. get farty with it. and, lift weights and exercise, and then, form meaningful relationships and take care of yourself, and all that. and don’t mind the new shape your body has, just deal with it. you are approaching elderly shape, and thats that.

Oh, and I read yesterday about Clitoral Atrophy, and how its a thing during menopause.

oh, and also? expect your male partners to be familiar with little blue pills.

so there is that to look forward to, once all this rollercoaster of blood and humanity slows.

I’m throwing in the towel. well, the bloody rag.

I apologize for this post, and yet, really, i fucking don’t.

YEah, this is about how it feels.

Perimenopause is a flat out bitch.



#3 Hamilton – My Shot [[VIDEO LYRICS]] – Bing video

WOOOOH. And also, just listened to that score from Hamilton. If you haven’t, that particular link has the lyrics so you can follow along and pretend you know your history. and rock a little, too.

Got a call on a Thursday night, had a johnson and johnson on Friday morning. Got a fever Friday night after I bought all my favorite treats to celebrate. (Kids were away, so it included stuff I don’t have to share!) Fever lasted right through to Sunday afternoon so I didn’t get out to do my farmer’s market shift for my farmer and I was in bed for almost every part of it. I did get up for a bit to move to the sofa. It was pretty damn boring, friends. Fever, chills, muscle aches. Not great. But, did I give away my shot? No!

And also? Knowing exactly what has caused or is causing a sickness? A pretty unique feeling. The science of vaccinations is so clear. (to me) The whole thing was a novel experience and one I may never have again in my life.

fever, yes. First Covid vaccination? Nah… Knowing what is causing my sickness? Probably not.

And so I lapsed on my five days a week writing plan. I’m fine. I was also recovering from the sickness days of the kids, way back when. AND you know, trauma and therapy and boredom and pandemic isolation and all the stuff that has to be done around the house in the spring that I am really not doing. I did get someone in to fix the literal hole in the side of the house though. So there is that.

But now I need to find a yellow ‘close-enough’ to paint over the fix or my house will look like a patched up car, forever. I’m very psyched there is no hole in my house, don’t get me wrong. But I spotted another one this week. The game is to not attach emotion to it. It is not a failure of mine to not maintain proper upkeep. It is just a structure, which ages, and its not personal.

Anyhow. I’m sorry this is such a rattrap of interwovens. I’ve got a list of things I need to get caught up on, and posting is on it. But yes, I’d like it to be better than rattrap. Its still poetry month, maybe I’ll hunt up something good for you. My eyebrows just wiggled, just so you know.

Love love,


traditional old house in green garden
This is not my house, but my god, wish that it were… Photo by Maria Orlova on