Category Archives: Cheyenne

Cheyenne, kittie cat, life, Writing

A Kittery Tale: Khajiit Finds a Furever Home with Jenny and Seneca aka, Khajiit turns Rock Star

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Okay, okay… A random cat finds you, you think it may be lost and you give it the freedom   to return to “home”,only “home” is now your house and she gets all prego… whaddaydo?

Watch life begin, of course.

The last 12 weeks have been brutal… for me.  Separations; mom wanting space, bigger poops in the litter box, everyone eating me out of house and home but ultimately jealousy.  Let me tell you about my late affection.

Little Rascal (now known as Khajiit) is one of the two calico’s from my tiny fur tribe.  She was the last one to offer me her sweetness.  When she finally gave forth, it was precious beyond words… but our beginnings were not so kosher.

In my observation Itty Bitty and Khajiit were in cat-hoots.  They like a bit of that bite and claw action.  If someone was biting at my toes, it was that Lil Rascal Khajiit. In the beginning there was minimal holding and reluctance to kiss; week 11 when Peanut Buddy (now Otto) left, the tides shifted. Lil Miss shifted from “battle bro” to “cuddle now.”  I had no complaints.  She jumped on the kissy train and settled down a bit.

Of course this begs the question of sibling dynamics, even in the animal world.  Catland was now fully saturated with females and one male, Big Boy .  Big Boy calmed down at least five fold without Peanut Buddy offering some male petition. Khajiit was in second place when it came to strength, size and agility without harassing Momma.  The Game was on.

Khajiit seemed to desire some self definition right away; she was a middle baby and despite her distinction in the looks department, her evasive nature made her hard to pin down or in human terms “force love upon”.   She seemed astute and willing to sit on the sidelines in order to form her own opinions.  I regret to say that more than once she was at the mercy of my clumsy nature around fast moving objects (namely my clumsy ass feet).  I definitely stepped on her tail more than once but always apologized and gave love afterward.   At one point I asked myself why it was always her that was at the mercy of my lack of grace…. obviously she came to grips with it because when she decided to love, it was super obvious.

All of sudden she wants to cuddle, FIRST!  Everyone else is running around like an idiot and she is like “Nah, I’m gonna grab that sweet warm spot behind the shaggy fat persons legs.”  History is made!  But Her Story is just beginning.

Jenny and Seneca wanted a kittery.  They NEEDed a kittery; my house is like a cat drug den… who will fall victim?  After Otto left, I let them all know ‘Some one is waiting for you,  and they can’t wait to show you a whole new world.”  Before Jenny came over to meet and greet, I told them “It’s equal opportunity, but I have my feelings.”   For some reason I knew LIL would make her mark in the introductory love department, and she did not disappoint.

Jenny came over for a meet and greet with a nature so gentle, I am sure all of them were surprised.    That nature is just what Lil needed if only to give them a run for their money.   Jenny wants to toilet train and walk on a leash and that is exactly the kind of world exposure newly named Khajiit needs.  A whole new world of love and adventure. Independence and dependence with the perfect balance of personality.

Khajiit is currently causing a riff of jealousy with her kin; within 48 hours of being in her new home she was given the opportunity to star in a music video from SunnyDale High, Seneca’s rad Wyoming band that thematically follows Buffy The Vampire Slayer.  Khajiit is going to be a hit.

You should definitely check out her acting debut with a great soundtrack by Seneca’s band.  Also you should definitely check out Sunnydale High when they play WARPED Tour this summer in Denver, if you do, you should tell them  “Khajiit sent you.”

May all my kitteries rock and find their love-home dreams come true.

Check out Khajiit’s debut and Sunnydale High’s music at this adorable link.

May the Meows be with you, Lord Kittery knows we all could use it right now.

 

 

 

 

 

Art, Cheyenne, insight, life

My Unabashed Wyoming Bias

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I have to admit it;  I am completely enamored and biased by people from Wyoming.  Specifically Cheyenne, Wyoming.

I was born there; raised there, excited to leave there, and reluctant to come back.

I’ve said it once and I will say it again; I think I came from a really special “breeding ground.”  It gave us everything other than what we wanted, and we made do  with what we had.

I stepped outside my FB echo chamber today, to check out my Cheyenne Friends List.  I set this up almost ten years ago, as a new offering on the FB platform.

See it automatically set up a “Cheyenne, Wy” friend group, but it was purely based on the people who listed Cheyenne as their current home town.  At that point I created my own list including people I have known over the 18 years of growing up, and then adding people I met living there, from real life and online interactions.

Some of my favorite people from my past, exist on that list.  I root for them the hardest.  I believe in them the most.  They rarely disappoint.

By this point in my life, I thought I would be the type of person that  would be “followed” or “friended” for this specific type of list but somewhere down the line I really stopped giving a fuck and I am sure people have noticed and unfollowed or unfriended me along the way.

I am no longer the over achieving-personality pleasing person I thought I was.  I am not jumping large social hurdles, or even putting up much appearance at all.  I am okay with that because it leaves me time and energy to root on other people.  It gives me something outside of myself to “believe in.”

Personally, I feel pretty solid in the fact that I have to keep myself in balance  enough to the point that I can’t really rely on others for supplemental encouragement or energy; nor do I want to be an energetic vampire.  So we sit in stasis.

I will admit I know some amazing people who  continue to exist with amounts of personal drive that I have a hard time fathoming, but probably could have trumped in my earlier years.

These people are from my home town.  These are people I want to follow. People I knew, “once upon a time.”

I want to see how they thrive and fall.  I want to be there to encourage them no matter what.

But I feel this way about other people who have fallen in and out of my periphery since then.  I never want to see them hurt.  I do not want to contribute to their pain.  I believe in them and their purpose.

Perhaps it is just those old stories, of when we were young and lacking confidence and suddenly found ourselves falling into a new group of friends, or perhaps it is just that rubbernecking attitude like watching a car wreck on the highway; I will never leave on a purposefully mean note.  I may not agree with everything they say, but I feel that they represent me on some level, whether due to geography of once upon a time or some other relating factor, I believe deeply in who those people are and what they have to offer.

I love my Wyoming Kin.  I love having a list to check up on, when I am curious.

I say : Go dominate the world with the amazingness that  you are my fellow Wyomites.  Always ask Wy-Om-In(g) here?  Wy-Om-I- (will)ngly to stay or go?  You know the Wind will always blow you in the right direction, if you are listening.

Wyoming- sometimes you aggravate the shit out of me, but for some reason, I always have your back; the people you produce and spit into the vast space of time and separation are worth keeping and holding close.  I will remember this when you forget.

Wyoming you are more akin to the dandelion than you are the Indian Paintbrush… unless of course they are plant cousins, and then I can see the relation and purpose in distinction.

Here is a bowl-full of love for the vast, beautiful creativity that was able to dissipate outside the square we were living in.  I hope to see your beautiful faces, sooner than later.

In the meantime, we will still be here waiting for you to return with your wild seeds, ready and willing to plant a new and colorful generation.

Art, Cheyenne, insight, life

What Your Parents Don’t Know

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I may or may not have outwardly appeared to be a “goody-two-shoes” as a teenager.  I didn’t really party; I was involved with the church, and several after school activities. I was usually preoccupied with jumping through the necessary hoops that lead to good grades and a well rounded college application.

In reality, I was a bit of an adventurer with a keen sense of intuition when it came to whether or not my adventures would lead to real trouble.  Lucky for me, nothing too terribly bad happened.

I didn’t get caught very often, but I remember one specific case which lead me to getting grounded about a year after getting my drivers license at sixteen.

During the summer, I had been working at Sloan’s Lake, life guarding my days away.   As one might imagine, being a relatively cute girl sitting on a life guard stand, day in and day out, brought male admirers.  By this time I had been driving myself  to work for almost a year, and I was riding high on that feeling of freedom while making money doing something I enjoyed.

Early in the summer, I was approached by a tall bleach blonde fella.  He had that tanned surfer look (conch necklace and all) that didn’t really look natural for Cheyenne, Wyoming native.  He was hot.  He was way more hot than any of the guys I knew from school.

I have to be honest here, I am a sucker for a good looking man; so much so, that my brain and intuitive capabilities just fly right out the window.  The insecurity arises in me, and for some dumb reason, I need to be liked. I want to be wanted by this person.  I will be willing to do stupid things for his attention.

So the flirtation began with this guy.  Everyday he would come to the park and flirt with me, and I definitely flirted back.  I was a couple months away from seventeen.  He was twenty four and in the military.    I was familiar with flirtations of young military men…one of my friends was constantly dating them opting for what they appeared to offer in the sense of maturity in comparison to high school boys.

Military guys always had nice cars and extra money to throw around.

So, this guy (I can’t remember his name to save my life, but he seemed like he was a “Josh”) and I can’t seem to get enough of each other.

I remember one time, my parents took me and my siblings to the mall for casual “pick what you want to eat from the food options” dinner and some strolling around… and once I separated from the clan, I went to a pay phone and called the guy, and met him in the parking lot where we proceeded to make out for an hour and a half.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

When I realized how much time had passed, I freaked out, tried to get myself together and went to find my family in the mall.  I remember my dad grilling me about where I had been, and me making up some dumb excuse about running into a friend, and how we must have just missed them while walking around.

I didn’t want to lie.  I also didn’t want to get into any trouble and for some reason I don’t think my parents would be too happy about some twenty four year old surfer Airman having his tongue down my throat and his hand up my shirt.

I was intoxicated by this guy.  Which should have been a clear sign that I was making bad decisions, OH, but the RUSH!  My hormones were on FIRE!  I would do whatever I could just to get a couple of minutes with him.  He had taken a part time job working at the Hardees on Dell Range, and after church my step mom would ask where we wanted to eat; if I knew he was working, I would beg to eat there.   Sometimes I would drive over there after school, just to see him for a few minutes before going back to school for play practice.  I was completely propelled by sexual energy.

One day, I remember telling my dad that I was going to be at the library all day, studying.  That wasn’t a normal place for me to study.  I didn’t usually have a lot of home work, and what I did have I was usually able to finish during breaks in rehearsals.  I am guessing that out of place statement, tipped off my dad’s own intuition.

I left the house and drove straight to Hardees, where Dude would be getting off of work shortly.  When I got there, he told me that he wanted me to meet some other dudes that he lives with at the barracks.   My heart started to flutter, I knew that guests under the age of 18 were not allowed in the barracks.  He assured me that no one really checks ID’s or anything, and that we would be fine.  So I left my car parked at Hardees, and hopped into his car and went with him, on base.

I think it must have been a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.  The guys in the barracks were drinking, playing video games, fooling around being boys, snapping towels and rough housing.  The guy took me to his darkened bedroom.  He asked me to sit on the bed, and from there he switched on a strobe light and pulled out a stack of Hustler magazines.

He started pulling off his clothes, and asked me to show him what I liked in the magazines.  Little did he know that I was planning to save my virginity for marriage, and that these magazines were really freaking out the Prude in me.  I started to panic, I didn’t want to be in this guys room any more.  I didn’t feel safe.  I told him to shut it down, and to take me back to my car.

There was about a half hour of him trying to convince me to just “loosen up and have a good time.”   It didn’t occur to me how crazy this situation could have gotten, I just knew I needed to get out of there.   The drive back to my car was awkward at best.  He sort of half apologizing and me getting the sense of dread that comes when I know I am about to get caught for drawing outside the lines.

As I got into my car, a girl a couple of years older than me, that I recognized from elementary school, came storming out of the restaurant, and briskly walked up to the passenger side of the dudes car.  She immediately started yelling at the dude.

I quickly pulled out of the parking lot and drove home, feeling some sick humiliation.

Once I was home, my dad stood waiting for me in the kitchen.

“Where have you been?”  He asks.

“I told you, I had stuff to do at the library.”

“Oh, really?  Because I decided I wanted to get some audio books at the library, so I went over there, and I didn’t see you.”

” I was kind of over in a dark corner by the periodicals.”

“I looked over there.”

“You probably just missed me.  My stomach has been acting up, and I went to the bathroom several times while I was there.”

“Mandie, you weren’t there.”

“Sure I was.”

“Your car wasn’t there.”

BOOM.  Back in those days, the library was pretty small, and if you were at the library it was pretty obvious by the parking situation… my ’82 blue Mustang hatchback was easily recognizable, and it had been his mothers old car, so he was really familiar with it… and no, it wasn’t at or near the library.  Something told me he had probably seen it on Dell Range, and had also stopped into Hardees to see if I was there.  Shit.

“Where were you?”  He probed again.

I couldn’t tell him the truth.  I couldn’t tell him that an adult man had taken me where I wasn’t suppose to be in an effort to try and get me naked.  I just could not tell my dad that… so again, I lied.  “I just went over to a friends house.  She’s having a hard time right now with a break up.”

He knew he wasn’t going to get the truth, and so “Lies have consequences, Mandie.  We are taking away car privileges for a week.”

“But, how will I get to school?”

“Your going to have to get up earlier, and ride the bus.”

“But State Drama auditions are this week, and there isn’t a late bus.”

” I guess you don’t get to audition for State Drama, then.”

“But, that’s not fair!”

“You probably should have thought about that before lying about where you were going.”

And that was that.  I begrudgingly rode the bus for a week, missed auditions and packed that bitterness into my heart.  Stupid boys, always messing my shit up.

The story doesn’t quite end there.  Nope, I came to find out that I was being played by a Player.  This guy was stringing along several underage girls.  His “main girl friend” happened to be nineteen, and she happened to work at the same Hardees, and she happened to be that same girl I recognized from elementary school who got into his car the day of the library fiasco.

The guy ended up telling her who I was, and where I went to school.  She knew what I drove and went to my school and waited for me.  I had speech practice or something and so I didn’t leave the building after the last bell.  She was waiting at my car to beat the shit out of me.  When I didn’t show up, she punctured one of my tires and left a threatening note that I should “watch my back.”  What had I gotten myself into?

Being somewhat confrontational, I needed to clear this mess up.  So, I drove over to Hardees, and saw his car, went in and grabbed a booth directly in front of the registers and waited for him to see me and come over.  Immediately his girl friend was hot on his heels, telling me to “get the fuck away from my man, you bitch!”

I calmly say that I am not here to fight.  And that she can have this sad excuse of a man, that is a dirt bag.  I then went on a tirade about how gross it was to take me to his dorm, and to try and get me to do stuff I didn’t want to do, and if she was okay with that then they deserved each other.  Then I slipped out of the booth and walked out the door, just as the girlfriend started to go off, full throttle on the dude.

Immediately I felt a sense of relief that I was done with those people.  I wondered if the girl had recognized me from elementary.  I recall her family seemed highly dysfunctional and poor.  She had the look of someone who had been dealt a pretty rough hand and her decisions weren’t making it any better.

About four years later, I got a part time job working in a makeshift call center for a vacuum company selling “air purification systems” out of the downtown mall near the Crown Bar.  It was more money than life guarding, and consisted of cold calling numbers out of the phone book.  Employee retention was low, and it seemed at least two people a week would leave or be replaced.

Imagine my surprise when that woman of the past comes walking through the door, fresh from jail looking even worse for the wear for her age.  I immediately hope that she doesn’t recognize me. I hope that she still isn’t with that guy.  I am immediately very friendly to her, very helpful.  She tells me some of her history; drug abuse, jail time, half way houses, parole officers, drugs testing weekly.

I remember it was July.  Frontier Days was a couple of weeks away.  This lady had no license, no car.  I drove her to a couple of appointments that she had to fulfill because of her legal troubles.  I never brought up that guy… but I did bring up the fact that I know we went to the same elementary school, and that she use to dress very “western.”

She admitted that even though she looks like a thug, that she was still a cowgirl at heart.  I had a pair of barely worn Justin boots and a couple of pairs of Wrangler jeans I never wore, and brought them to her the next day, so that she could get all Western for Frontier Days if she wanted.

I quit the job not long after that because it felt like a scam, calling numbers from pages in the phone book, and being told “Mr. So In So is dead.”  I couldn’t prey on people like that.

I’d like to think that despite everything, that I did something right by being kind to that lady.

 

Art, Cheyenne, insight, life, Writing

Mother Pluckin Mothers Day

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I’ve never really thought about being a mother, or what it actually means to be a mother.

I suppose more likely that I have given it some severe criticism over my days.

You know that moment when you just submit to how things are; how you are sure they will always be in the midst of knowing, while STILL trying, somehow,  to make it better – perhaps over compensating in some mentality that had served you for a good long while; but has become such a self identifying characteristic, that letting go is hard, and humbling and tough to move beyond?

Yep.  That is me.

I could blame the anti-mom game on my early life; social programming, feminism, Disney, and the World In General… but I won’t.

I made a choice of self preservation due to trauma in early life… and I have unabashedly  stuck to it.  I empowered myself by it;  I gave it life and definition.  I fed it by ignorantly and fyoulishly adhering to my trauma blinders.

HA!  Like I think I have always known things!

When I was a child, I wanted to be a Grandma, above all…but, I also knew I never wanted to be a mom- so being a grandma, was probably out of the question.

I grew out of attempting to age quickly, and clung to the idea of being “The cool Aunt.”    My tag line is “When you can’t handle the transitions, save your sanity and send them to me.”  I believed I could be the bridging gap between generations, despite being a decade older than my sister.

Somehow, being single and childless, in my mind, equaled freedom which directly translated to “more room to comprehend and connect.”  It also meant “choosing ones own connections” aka “being exclusive and reclusive, mysterious and confused.”   “Appearing more purposeful than I actually feel.”

I have been, successful.

Successful at avoiding certain responsibilities by “opting out.”  Successful at using the word “No”, even when it’s too much, going too far.  Successful at building a very strong fortress around my totality of being-ness.  Successful at giving out selective passage with time limits, to those who dare venture these walls.

But hey, what is your definition of  “Success”? Is it at all defined by your MOM?

Mothers, just…they just aren’t suppose to just leave, ya know?

I don’t know… I mean… based off Disney, they are bound to. Moms exist as a memory with Disney.  Why is it all the girls and boys who love Disney movies the MOST, still have their mom‘s?

Right?!?  They not only HAVE them… they are CLOSE to them…

I guess, I should admit, I never really “bonded with my step mom in a way that  would ever give me a real “Mommy” vibe.  In the same breath, I will admit, I gave that woman hell with solidified child thoughts.

“You AREN’T MY MOM!”

“Why did you choose HER?”

“She WILL NEVER understand me!”

What wasn’t childish, and I didn’t understand back then, was the fact that I was unknowingly competing with an adult woman for my fathers’ attention.

Whoa, right?!?  No one tells you that at 9 years old, even if you are going to a therapist who is SUPPOSE to help you navigate shit exactly like this; why?  Because you are STRONG, you are RESILIENT, you are SMART, and if an adult explains it properly, YOU WILL COMPREHEND AND OUT DO EXPECTATIONS!

On the other hand, you can still carry all those attributes and go on like a bumbling fool because the adults around you are afraid of breaking a child who has already broken.  A child seeking security, and finding everything around themselves a suspect.  A child adapting, but never REALLY feeling like they are trusted or heard.  Ho, Hum.

I don’t blame the effect of this on any one but myself these days.  And, I am hard on myself, so I ask myself things like  “Why didn’t you see this and understand this dynamic earlier?  What is wrong with you?  Why do you continue to fixate on things that are more easily accepted AS IS, instead of ruminating solutions to the past free-will decisions and actions of others?  If that is what they would have thought was best, they would have.  You know they are doing their best just like you, but you STILL SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT and KNOWN.”

UGH.  Someone please bring me a 2×4 to beat my own head in.

That has been my life on repeat in variations for TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS!

Coincidentally, my step mom married my dad at the age of 28, in May, nineteen years ago this year.

I had just finished up my first grade year.  And let me tell you, it was an EPIC year.  I went to Ireland with my grandparents, my brother and my dad.  I felt like I landed in a place made just for me, except for my sensitive stomach.  We traveled in a rented van and stayed at B&B’s and I felt like the magic of my heritage was upon me. During the school year  I had a beautiful and kind first grade teacher, Miss Rolfe, who was super nice and magical.

Then The End of The Year came.  A week before the last day of first grade, I found out my Miss Rolfe was getting married, and on the last day of school we made a celebratory field trip to Brimmer Park, down the road from Baggs Elementary.  I remember my grandma took me to buy  a gift, and I chose two silver candle holders.  I was excited to show her how much I adored her.

We had a child like bridal shower in the park.  We all brought gifts, and over sized white t-shirts for her to sign in magic marker. On mine she drew an eye + heart+ you.  I felt that inscription in my heart.  She was beautiful, she taught with kindness and I thought she would be there forever.

At the end of our picnic park party, Miss Rolfe broke the news; the man she was marrying had something happening in Arizona.  She wouldn’t be at the school the next year; she was moving.

My heart broke, and I am sure my attitude showed it. My grandpa picked me up from school and we walked the three blocks home.  I was miffed.

I remember being home a while and my dad came in.  I was in the kitchen, and he knelled down to me sitting at the table.  He asked me something like “What do you think about me marrying Karen?”

And my heart sunk lower in my chest, but given the opportunity to express, I said “No…No.”

I received an answer that culminated in “It’s too late.”  I had no “real choice” in the matter.

So finding out I was getting a “new mom” with no choice, and realizing I wouldn’t be returning to Baggs Elementary; I was hit with the realization that  I lost a teacher, a school and all my friends; but, hey, I was gaining a step mom and a move to the country west of town, to a new school and house.

I stayed mad for two decades, and anything I deemed my step mothers doing in my misery, went into my brain archive.

How DARE you ask me, what I think and feel, if in the end, it matters, not?

I have always fallen victim to my observations and opinions.

How does one become malleable?  Roll with the punches and keep your mouth shut.  Make up your mind and keep it to yourself.  Suffer in silence.

I looked for my dead mother until I was fifteen; thinking somehow, someway, she could get away faking her death and continue living with another family in the same town.  I looked for her in the aisles of stores, and in the  clouds when I flew on planes.  I thought, in my youth, that you could just put a bouquet of flowers on the roof on birthdays and Mothers day, and she would just float down and get it.  It all continues to give me cognitive dissonance.

But… you know what pulls me out of that dissonance?

I am THIRTY SIX FUCKING YEARS OLD!  This shit is old hat.  I graduated  high school half of my life ago.  Life has moved on.  Everyone is moving on in their own way.

If I am honest with myself and my observations, these truths are undeniable… I have kept myself stuck despite knowing the evolving truths….

My dad has someone who loves him, and her loves her back.

My sister has an attentive mother that adores her, and she deserves that.

They all have done the best they can with me, but I kind of scare them.

Everybody is fighting to comprehend the day to day, and it’s changing swiftly.

My step-mom has always done the best that she can with no guide book, she is brave and resilient; but most like me, adaptable.

I wish I came upon all this alone, but I didn’t.

I have been really blessed in my adulthood to have surrogate mothers.  Women, regardless of age, whose lives seemed to somehow collide into mine.

I haven’t had the same “call and check in every day” or “pop in unexpected” or “care for you when you are sick” kind of relationships; but I have had some eye opening realizations and some heart felt growth.  But honestly, I mean, in my own experience the one thing you have to face about a surrogate is, they will always be there MORE for their own in the most natural and organic way.  You are not really the Fruit of Their Loom, er Womb.

Kind of the same thing with my “step” situation.

She has my sister, and my sister has her; and in no way would I ever wish a woman to grow up motherless. They have a pact I will never truly understand.  And I would never do anything to keep them from it.

I hypothesize that maybe if you have enough surrogate moms, you can actually plan that into your schedule and hug more frequently, and have a reason to make lots of handmade cards?  I don’t know.   What I do know, is, they are there when I need them,most times.  But I don’t ask for, or expect much, and that makes it easier for everyone.  Life is like that.  Sometimes, you have to just figure it out on your own because no one is there to pick up the call or rescue you.. or just soothe you.

And that is okay too.

Some of us have to learn to “Mother” ourselves.

My surrogates and my step mom have taught me more about themselves and myself in regard to the life around me by their unique perspectives and my willingness to listen and observe.  They present perspectives I don’t have on my own, unless I really try.  They DO HAVE birth children! They understand love on a level that I don’t They have  and continue to ride that roller-coaster which may not be ending soon when it comes to life transitions and need.

Rumor has it, “You always want and need your mother… no matter how old you are.”

What do they want in return? These Mothers?  Proof of existence?  Proof that their pain and turmoil and worry isn’t in vain?  Proof that their best attributes can rub off and be impactful and important through progeny?… Justification to a certain degree, that the risk was worth it?  The worry has worth?

Honestly, I don’t fucking know.  I am not even going to pretend right now.  Tell me.

The best I can come up with, is, they are like me; care taking spirits.  I took a different angle, and I know that the out come will be different.  I have no expectation than to have to deal with the most gruesome parts of mortality alone.  They probably expect or at least hope their children will be there to hold their hands through it, when it is their time.

I need to work on honoring this, because quite honestly I have previously just shat upon a Mothers purpose, Their purpose.   We don’t have life without Mothers.  We do not have balance without Women… and care taking humanity would be a lost cause without that energy.

But, I’m not a feminist…?!?

I don’t have to be, because regardless, Mothers gonna keep Mothering.  I apologize if I wasn’t appreciative before.  You all impact the totality of the past,present and future.  We need your love and attentiveness.  We need your kindness and structure.  We need your support, and your presence.  We need your fearless protective nature.

You are a TREASURE.

Thank you.

May all you Mothers, have a Mother Pluckin Mothers Day.

Cheyenne, Politics

Richard Johnson, Renegade Politician Pt.1

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If you are a Cheyenne resident-voter that follows local politics, the name of Richard Johnson, has probably popped up in conversation more than once around the water cooler.

In all seriousness, it appears that he has a completely diametric effect on those who have taken notice of his politics; whether from the outside looking in, or first hand. You either love him, hate him or find yourself completely confused by him and his presence in the political arena.

Some may say, though, that “is par for the course when it comes to politicians.” Rich, however, is far from par for the course when it comes to politics.

And, now, our Black Sheep Councilman, is running for Mayor, on a write-in campaign.

Richard is a life long resident of Cheyenne.

He has been labeled as “subversive” or “controversial” and those labels are nothing new when it comes to how he chooses to play his role in the game of society.

From a young age, Rich was getting things done in a manner of hard grit sandpaper. Ruffling feathers with his ideas; all while making strong attempts to involve sub-sectors of our community, places, and ways- to feel included in the conversation.

Take for instance, his involvement and passion to help get the skate park built.

I remember this town before there was a skate park. I didn’t skate but many of my friends did and I knew how badly they wanted a place to go; a magical place where they could do what  they wanted to; a place where they weren’t going to get yelled at or cited for “illegal skating.”

Rich was just a few years older; he cared about skating AND politics enough to jump in,  quickly discovering the depth of agendas when building something new in a city.  Ultimately it all came down to politics and support of the community.

At a first and superficial glance, some may assume that Rich is just out to break things.

Breaking the systems and people who view him as obstructive or destructive… but can One individual really break something that is already blocked and/ or broken? Can One individual use their own transparency to show others that they need not pretend that superficial fixes and ignorance will alleviate a certain history of systematic dysfunction, that no longer fits our growing and changing the economy?

I suppose Richard is out to challenge that in a very direct way that will yet again ruffle feathers.

This is not to say that in the process of his involvement, officially with the City Council, that he hasn’t himself changed, and noticeably so…

It’s a moody spring day in Cheyenne, Thursday in the third week of May; we decide to meet up at the new Danielmark’s Brewpub, to discuss his effect on the community, and the reasons for the write-in campaign.

Rich looks like I feel; tired, and perhaps retaining some water. On his head is a black ball cap that proclaims “DON’T ASK ME 4 SHIT!”… ironic accessory to wear to an interview… when all I have is answers to ask for.

As per usual, he has also accessorized with one of his favorite black metal band t-shirts; today it’s Panzerfaust. According to Wikipedia

“Panzerfaust is an inexpensive, single shot, recoil-less German anti-tank weapon of World War II. It consists of a small, disposable pre-loaded launch tube firing a high-explosive anti-tank warhead, and was intended to be operated by a single soldier. “

This could be the end of this article. Whether or not he realizes it (and I guess that he does), he sums himself up consistently, without the help of others.

My hope for this series of pieces is to give you a more clear view of where Rich stands on topics effecting this town.  For those of you who may be on the fence, or just on the side of the fence where the haters hang out; This is for you.

We grab our brews, and head out to the nice new Danielmark’s patio, and jump straight into it.

“Well, Rich, tell me about how you have become who you’ve hated?”

Basically, over the last month, I have done a huge paradigm shift from who I was before January 5, 2015. Pretty much before that, I was an idealist, and now I am the fucking worst pessimist you’ve ever fucking met.

“So you basically skipped realism, and jumped straight to pessimism?”

Yeah, it’s pretty much, this whole escapade is a total fucking failure. At least my site lives up to it’s name now. (The infamous FaceBook page “Richard Johnson, You Failed This City)

“Why are you feeling so disappointed?”

Well, because I know that there are ebbs and flows, and right now it’s on a flow, and soon it will be on an ebb…and we’re going to get another old man as Mayor. And I bet you that this year the status quo is going to go out in droves and kill everything (progressive.) I was actually waiting for more candidates to run against me, not because of who I am, but basically because of what I stand for. So I thought there would be a lot more opposition candidates. I mean they have nine more days to file… I figured they would come in a put the kibosh on it. I mean if they really look at it, I haven’t done anything except repeal some laws and ordinances. Like spitting is coming up, and weapons. Basically (the) chickens was a thing that nobody thought should happen, but I just did it to piss people off.“

“Are you maybe just being a little too hard on yourself? I mean, you have only been in the position a year, and it probably takes at least a year to figure out what you are doing, since you hadn’t done it before.”

No, I knew exactly what I was doing. I did it with the skate park. I knew what government was all about, that’s why I thought I could just, kind of, mesh in. But, you know, really, it’s just smoke and mirrors. I don’t really feel like anything has really been accomplished in seventeen months.

“But, you didn’t have a clear plan, right?”

No. And I never do. I never run on that type of shit. I told them, that I have no agenda. For my write in, let’s just say that this community better hope I’m never elected for Mayor.

“What does that even mean?”

I will raise the impact fees for developers. I will never have a sixpenny or seven penny tax, where you have to pay for a fire station because a developer wants to keep a couple of million for themselves. I WILL RAISE IMPACT FEES, and I WILL make developers pay for fire stations and more police officers. And I know, the Chamber of Commerce is going to come after me and tell me that I am not supporting local business. Then the Council is going to flip flop on me because they are a bunch of cowards. They are going to get scared that suddenly local business’ that hires local employees, is going to get the shaft again. If you look at inflation rates the Walmart on Livingston paid $125.00 for their final flat.”

Richard then explains his observation of wasted funds on spaces, with things like landscaping, in the name of “beautification” with plants that are having a hard time surviving in our climate at the times of year that they are planted. At the same time he is addressing his experience with the community complaining about the overgrown Green Way, that is justified to not be trimmed as a means of “trash mitigation and purification of waters with natural grasslands.”

Johnson makes note that Cheyenne lacks a specific beautification plan that is symbiotic with the climate and environment of the city and surrounding areas, and that citizens and business’ are wasting funds yearly on everything but long-lasting beautification solutions that can also add to the potential uniqueness of Cheyenne.

Maybe it was the topics of trash and monetary waste; that the conversation led next to the other Mayoral Candidates running for office.

As you may have heard before this article, Johnson is running on a write-in campaign. No signs, no banners, no $25.00 entry fee to put his name in the hat. He doesn’t think you need to spend money on a campaign, and he is out to prove it in his own renegade way. Some people are laughing, I know… and maybe I am giggling a little on the inside, too. My reason is, “you never know until you try, and if you don’t put any money in… what do you have to lose?” Right?

A slight controversy recently came up online, after Marian Orr announced her Mayoral bid with videos, balloons and bright orange posters. Richard boiled it down to gimmicks and things that would end up as trash in peoples yards.   In turn, he encouraged  voters to avoid posters on their lawns and in their business’, and instead, actually investigate what the constituents were currently doing in the community that would prove they should have a seat ( whether City Council, Mayor, or beyond.)

Social Media followers of Richard Johnson and active participants in the community eager to try their hand at city council agreed with his logic. Gabe Pina of Pina Accounting and the Downtown Cheyenne Business Coop is running for a seat in Ward 3 City Council.  He was inspired to ask his supporters to donate to one of several community charities in lieu of campaign donations.

I almost feel like an asshole now, every time I go into a new business opening because I am surrounded by fake assholes. I am surrounded by ‘candidates’. It’s almost like everything I have done for the last year and a half on my own was “Oh I am elected, now I have to really go out and support my community. “

And support his community he did. “Richard Johnson, You Failed This City” has been just as abuzz with community events as it has been with Johnson’s personal rants; raves, observations, controversial pictures and not so rhetorical questions.

Anything having to do with Cheyenne; issues within the community have been posted to his social media participants, by Richard himself. Concerns by the public have been emailed to him, and he has posted them anonymously to gauge the interest of the community with topics raised. Overall, Rich has made a pretty concerted effort to attend as many events as possible regardless of niche or perceived “cool” factor.

More than once, Richard has arrived unannounced, and not specifically invited. And, perhaps to some onlookers, who may have been selfly placated in their own perceived superiority; were the least impressed with the effort in which Mr. Johnson was asserting himself into political circles concerning this community in the fine state of Wyoming.

So, though perhaps not out to impress, Richard Johnson is more willing than others to play the game and attempt to beat it by breaking the status quo.  Whether he breaks it, or perhaps just overloads the system; there is bound to be an impact for Cheyenne.

(To go to Part 2, CLICK HERE)

Cheyenne, Writing

Four Miles, For Miles.

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My thighs were sticking together.

I am sure a rash was happening.

The friction of skin upon skin, creating a burn like Sin.

Being in one of the most social of lady places; the bathroom, I queried another female patron.

“Do you have any powder, by chance?”

Answering the question with an action, she pulled a large zip-loc bag out of her purse.

“I need just enough to dry out my lack of thigh gap.” I respond with more dryness than my pasty but saturated Vaginal neighbors.

“Ohhh, hunny.. this aint’t talc… It’s coke.”

Immediately, I imagine the options of relief.

“Too expensive for my needs, but I bet the numbing sensation is worth it;” imagining the potential, I add ” I need four miles worth of ‘numb’ dryness.”

She queries, “Four miles?”

I am pretty sure at this point she is already coked out and her brain is having a hard time equivocating.

“Yeah… four miles home. I think by cab that is about fifteen bucks… and that just seems too much to me, for this podunk town….. too much, even though, I… Even though I am having this issue.” At this point I am attempting to handle the pain with a smile… I am a liar, and this shit hurts.

Eyebrows cocked, head tilted, she questions, ” An issue?”

“A woman’s issue…”

She looks incredulous for a moment until a spark of understanding, spreads over her already tightened facial muscles.

“OOOoooohhh, Auntie Flo!”

I see she is now slightly softened by compassion and understanding.

“Uhmm… No.” I can’t help but pause, acknowledging that if that WAS the case, it would be the least of my concerns; and that is why God made toilet paper.

“No?” She repeats, but with a sense of fear… like maybe I will tell her I just found breast cancer, or one of my ovarian cysts just escaped.

“No. I have heinous thigh sweat, and…uhm… massive chaffing.” I don’t know why I am so ashamed of saying this in front of a person carrying enough cocaine to be indicted on a felony, but it is how I respond, nonetheless.

“oh. OH. OooooOOHHHHhhh!” Images percolate in her mind and her eyes get big. I like that she seems to REALLY “get it”.

“Yeah…”

“Oh, hunny… that’s rough!”

Without losing a beat… I say,

“No, it’s RAW!”

I have pulled her into coke induced empathy, and she nods knowingly. “Yeah… whew, them’s the pits.”

On a roll, I say “More like the crevasses.”

Still feeling a bit desperate and despondent about returning to the bar,  I ask ” So, do you have anything else in that big, magic bag that might help me?”

She begins the notorious “Puffy Purse Scavenger Hunt.” Digging deep in its depths for something significant or (in her mind) useful.

” Uhm, well, how about…Preparation H? err… uh.. Advil?”

By the looks of it, she has a whole different set of ‘women’s issues’; the pain, numbing my verbal filter, causes me to outwardly express as much.

I am disappointed AND defeated, but she is quick to respond, “Damn straight! I do! And I don’t leave my house ill prepared.”

God Jeebus, she must be a Virgo… I know what she is talking about, because USUALLY, I AM that lady (minus large zip-lock bags filled with illegal substances).

Agitated with my observations, I add in a whisper of “apparently…” with far too much judgement and sarcasm.

An awkward silence ensues, and I find this to be prime time to exit stage left. Besides, she doesn’t have what I need, anyway.

Betcha if I needed a safety pin, there would be one floating around in there.

Maybe, just maybe, this is my fault.

Maybe, if I was at a family restaurant, instead of this dark bar,  I would have better luck with my needs.

Maybe under other circumstances I could find a nice overweight and sympathetic mother… with a small baby, and an overstuffed baby bag.

And I would ask for her help… and she would reach deep into that well stocked baby bag of hers, and pull out just ONE of ten travel size baby powder bottles; and she would hand it over with loving care, and say “Keep it. You know you’re going to need a reapplication some where down the road.”

And she would wink at me, maybe even squeeze my hand or my shoulder and I would feel safe, protected and loved.

I would respond with a smile and a humble “Thank you”; thinking my good Karma must be returning in the form of self preservation, and I would walk home properly powdered.

Instead of looking for a family restaurant, with a responsible mother carrying a plentiful baby bag; I walked back into the bar intent on the only legal numbing I know… whiskey.

They know me here and the bartender asks if I will take another double Jameson on the rocks. I say “yes and add on a pint of Fat Tire.”

My favorite short order Cook sits to my right, and says “I’ve got those, put ’em on my tab.”

“Oh you don’t have to do that… I’ve got it.” I respond with a shyness.

“Nah, you gave that warm knit hat that you made, to my friend who was sick… and that hat kept her head and ears warm all winter.”

I can’t argue with such kind logic, and thank him for the drinks.

My good Karma is not in fact going to self preservation right now; or maybe it is, it’s just my momentary perspective…. I do need these drinks right now, if only to distract my brain from the chub rub forming on my inner thighs.

“Well, thanks again. I really appreciate it.”

And I do appreciate it as I slip out the back door to the patio; to go think some more about perspective.

The Zen Buddhists say to “judge nothing.” To see all as life, without duality.

So I adopt this perspective for the moment and take a long swig of whiskey. I hold it in my mouth for a while, letting the alcohol drench all of my taste buds. Slowly, I swallow it’s gentle burn down my throat.

I let the alcohol sit in my mouth like a tincture; letting the medicinal properties seep into the porous membrane of my mouth, allowing the liquid to cross the blood brain barrier and stimulate an exquisite release of dopamine.

Anyone observing may think I am contemplating the “swallow.” Wondering why my process is less smooth and desperate as their own, as they urgently suckle the heads of bottles containing weak watery beer. They drink it like they need water, like a hungry baby at the nipple.

I am outside, and no one is here. No one to watch or judge.

The air is thick with humidity and the clouds compound into a thick grayness above; growing heavy with precipitation, the thunder begins to take over.

I smile at the age old vision of God and his army of angels rolling bowling balls down an infinite bowling lane. Each roll of thunder, a ball. Each strike of lightening, the strike of all ten pins. After some time, it begins to hail. Perhaps this is a sign of a Heavenly game of 300, and the hail is celestial confetti falling to Earths floor.

The hoots and hollers,  vibrating clouds, reverberate the cheers of a job well done. The Heavenly Team has won the League Championship.

Unbeknownst to them, we sit below like ants; watching as our flowers are beat free of their petals and our cars become dented with new geography.

A few people now have gathered beneath the rain shelter. We chat about the weather, avoiding conversations that dig much deeper. It’s okay… I didn’t come for more than distraction from my physical malady; which I have almost successfully mastered, until I again remind myself of the impending four miles.  Four Miles… for miles.

 

I take the last drink of whiskey, and chew on a couple of ice cubes as I stand to take my first apprehensive steps toward home.

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