Radical Issues: An Interlude

This morning I read Rebecca Solnit’s “letter to my dismal allies on the US left.” So much in it resonated deeply with me. In it, she said:

Maybe it’s part of our country’s puritan heritage, of demonstrating one’s own purity and superiority rather than focusing on fixing problems or being compassionate. Maybe it comes from people who grew up in the mainstream and felt like the kid who pointed out that the emperor had no clothes, that there were naked lies, hypocrisies and corruptions in the system…

When you’re a hammer everything looks like a nail, but that’s not a good reason to continue to pound down anything in the vicinity. Consider what needs to be raised up as well. Consider our powers, our victories, our possibilities; ask yourself just what you’re contributing, what kind of story you’re telling, and what kind you want to be telling.

So often I feel like we spend so much time as feminists and activists pointing out the nudity of our leaders and the systems that they put in place that we cannot enjoy our victories even for a moment.

A prime example for me came in the form of the SCOTUS decision on Friday regarding marriage equality in the US. You have to have known that it happened. The internet has been awash in rainbows ever since.

Anyway, about halfway through my day on Friday I noticed a vocal minority starting to talk about how there is a lot more work to do and how we need to turn our eyes to the future.

They’re not wrong.

But I couldn’t help the frustration that welled up in me. Can’t we just have ONE DAY? I thought. Can’t we just celebrate this culmination of so much blood, sweat and tears and then think about the rest of What Must Be Done tomorrow?

One of my biggest issues with being involved in social justice as a feminist is this constant nitpicking at everything that happens. I know that there are larger issues at stake. I know that we are not done fighting. I know that things are getting better in small increments that appear big when they suddenly have a cover story in the New York Times.

But sometimes I just want to celebrate without delving into the minutia of complications that suck the joy right out of a victory. Sometimes I just want to say “Hey, isn’t it great that SCOTUS ruled in favor of marriage equality?” and have people respond with “Yes” rather than “Yes, but…”

I’m not an idiot. I don’t live with my head in the sand. I recognize the irony of Facebook plastering everyone’s profile pictures with rainbows while still not allowing trans folks to use their actual names on their profiles. I’m aware that the right to get married to my girlfriend does not mean that, in certain states, we can’t still be fired or evicted based on our relationship.

I know that. I know all of that and more. But it’s fucking exhausting to be reminded of it even at the height of something wonderful happening.

As Solnit said:

There is idealism somewhere under this pile of bile, the pernicious idealism that wants the world to be perfect and is disgruntled that it isn’t – and that it never will be. That’s why the perfect is the enemy of the good. Because, really, people, part of how we are going to thrive in this imperfect moment is through élan, esprit de corps, fierce hope and generous hearts.

We all want to live in a perfect world. We want to see things change for the better. But I think that being constantly on edge and constantly picking at people about the problems is not necessarily as healthy for ourselves or our causes as we would like it to be. When we are delivered a solid win like the one we had on Friday, I think it’s OK to let go and celebrate the victory for the moment and set the inevitable problems aside to analyze later.

Morbidity & Mortality

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about dying.

I was introduced to death when I was 10 years old. My great aunt was 93. When I left school one day my mother told me that she had died. I cried so hard. I barely even knew her, but the idea that someone was permanently gone from my life was so difficult to imagine at that age.

I remember her funeral. I remember burying her and going to this big restaurant to eat and really just wanting to go home and be sad in my room.

When my grandmother died I was at work. I was just out of high school. I got a call on the restaurant’s phone and went back to answer it. After that I don’t remember much. I remember sliding down the wall like in a movie. Crying in front of the whole kitchen. I remember sitting at her funeral next to my grandfather who was crying openly and telling me he didn’t know what he was going to do without her.

He died shortly thereafter. He waited for me to come and say goodbye. I sang to him in the apartment beneath my aunt’s house that he had shared with my grandmother. Then he died.

When enough people in your life slip away from you, you start to think that it doesn’t even really matter anymore. One more death. You’d think it would numb you. But it doesn’t.

When my father’s best friend died I was in Germany with my mother. He’d had cancer for a while. I had to comfort my mother, so I didn’t grieve for him the way I had done for the people before. Years later, I find myself missing him with this sharp ache that hasn’t really started to ease yet.

When enough people in your life die you start to be afraid of phones when people are sick. Which, when I was younger, wasn’t as difficult as it is now. Now, whenever my grandmother’s number appears on my phone, I worry that someone has found her in her apartment. But instead of my phone being in my house all the time, it’s in my purse. This weird specter that looms over my everyday life with the threat of bad news when things get dire for someone I care about.

I don’t know why death has been in my head so much lately. Maybe it’s because things have been so good that I’m expecting the other shoe to drop. Maybe I’m dreading the thrice-fold tumbling of people I know into some abyss. Maybe I’m just anxious and this is how the anxiety is manifesting.

I worry about my family. I worry about my dog.

I have to remind myself to breathe. To let the worry go. To remind myself that death is a symptom of life and to live my life with fervency and relish. To fight the fear. Death is inevitable, after all. And living my life in fear of it is not going to do me any good.

Humanism ≠ Feminism

On Monday I went up to visit my parents. On the drive back to the train station, my mom told me that she’d had a super awkward conversation over dinner with old friends. The people she was eating dinner with brought up a guy they knew who had passed away in a car accident some years back. In the conversation, they remembered him being “a great guy” with a “great laugh.”

Mom brought the conversation to a screeching halt with two small sentences:

“Yea, such a great guy. You know he used to beat the hell out of his wife?”

After that, things got weird and awkward. Other people in the conversation called the woman in question “mouthy” and said that it wasn’t a coincidence that every man she’d been in a relationship with had beaten her. Mom cited repetition compulsion and that being “mouthy” (whatever that fucking means) is never an acceptable justification for abuse.

Mom felt super awkward about the conversation, but I was so proud of her! Feminist killjoy moments like that make me so happy I just have to Tweet about them.

When I told my mom that the conversation was an awesome feminist moment and how thrilled I was that she had opened up like that and corrected the other people in the conversation, her response was to say that she doesn’t “identify as feminist,” but rather as a “humanist.”

At which point I just wanted to put my head in my hands and rub my face with frustration.

I totally get where she’s coming from because I used to be her. I thought that feminism was too aggressive a movement for me to identify with. I didn’t want to lose friends over my association with some extremist viewpoint. I also thought that feminism was exclusive to women and didn’t want to exclude the men in my life from my primary operating belief system.

I had some serious learning and growing to do.

The first thing that I had to learn is that humanism is already it’s own thing. Humanism is chiefly the belief that humans have no need of supernatural powers to solve their problems. The American Humanist Association defines humanism as having numerous meanings depending on what exactly you are speaking about. Literary humanism differs from religious humanism, for example. They define Modern Humanism as:

“…a naturalistic philosophy that rejects all supernaturalism and relies primarily upon reason and science, democracy and human compassion.”

It should be noted that modern humanism grapples with whether or not it should be defined religiously or secularly. I, personally am a secular Humanist. I’m basically an atheist and I truly do believe that humans have the potential to rationally sort out their own problems. With that said, my humanism and my feminism are distinctly separate beliefs that inform one another.

My understanding of feminism was fundamentally changed when I re-framed it as a resistance to – and revolution against – the patriarchal ideals which inform our society. I realized that men were very much included in feminism when I learned about things like toxic masculinity and started to think about how the roles and responsibilities that we apply to the fantasy that is the gender binary hurt people all along the sex and gender spectrum.

My world was further opened when I found myself interacting with intersectional feminists and discovered that my feminism could include not only all genders and sexual identities, but also people of other races and other issues of social justice. Of course, this portion of my feminism meant I got called out a lot on my white feminism and my ignorance when it came to issues of trans inclusivity, which was incredibly awkward for me at the time.

The point of all of this is to say that feminism and humanism are not the same. But even more than that, feminism includes men and women and trans folk. It includes people of all colors, sizes and sexual identities. And if you meet someone who calls themselves a feminist and doesn’t actually include all of those things? Then they are not really feminists. Feminism is either intersectional or bullshit. One of those two things. But that is an issue for another blog.

Hatred, Terror and the Shooting in Charleston

I woke up this morning to the same news as many of you. Last night in Charleston, North Carolina, a white man consumed by hate shot and killed 9 people in a church after a prayer meeting.*

My heart goes out to the community in Charleston and to the families and friends of those injured and killed. I cannot begin to imagine what they are going through.**

The scariest thing about events like this is that, although we condemn the people who have committed these acts, the fact is that the person behind the gun is simply that: a person.

Things were simpler when I was younger and lived under the mistaken assumption that Bad Guys were easily identifiable and worked for Evil Organizations with names like Cobra so you knew they were bound to do something terrible. As an adult, I’m aware that a lot of the terrible things we see happening are the result of individual choice. And that terrifies me.

When I was in high school the 911 attacks happened. I won’t bother to recount what they were like. So many of us were around when they happened. And the events themselves are not the point.

After the attacks, the people around me were so angry. I want to say that I was somehow above all that. That I saw instantly the inherent humanity of the cultures out of which the terrorists arose. But I was young and I didn’t have that inherent response. The people around me infused me with anger. I didn’t know who to point my anger at, so I pointed it at the countries that we were told by the government were the ones responsible. And I felt that anger with all the forcefulness of a teenage girl who had not yet learned important lessons about temperance.

I hated a group of people intensely. For a moment. Before I stopped myself and started to work out the nuance of that group. I saw the absurdity of hating a whole swath of human beings as though they were responsible for the actions of individuals.

The things that cause and engender violence on the part of individuals are more complicated and nuanced than simply being born in the same place. Eventually, the choice to do violence unto another person comes down to individual choice.

But that’s the scary part.


I could walk through my life and manage to never be pushed by external or internal forces into an act of senseless violence. But the people around me have no way of knowing if I will one day snap and do something terrible. Something irrevocable.

The bastard who shot up that church last night deserves to be punished. The terror that he has inflicted upon the community in Charleston is very real. And lasting. The damage that he has done can be measured in lives lost and terror inflicted.

He is just one man. And that’s what frightens me. That one man could do so much damage and cause so much grief and somehow be missed by the authorities until after he had done something so terrible… it makes me afraid. Which I’m sure was at least part of his goal. That’s the way that terrorists usually operate, after all.

*That man, Dylann Roof, has since been apprehended. It’s worth noting that he has been taken alive despite having killed 9 people. A privilege that is not afforded many people of color in this country who have been killed for merely having a gun, or just walking down the street. I can’t wait to hear the mental health and “he was a quiet boy” defenses start rolling off tongues in the peanut gallery. I want to talk more about this story as it unfolds. I’m already exhausted in the face of the racism inherent in our media and police force in their handling of this situation. I’ll muster up the words for my thoughts soon.

**Please consider making a donation to the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church to help get their community through this trying time.

McKinney: Part Two

Today seems heavy and sad. I woke up to more news about McKinney.

Apparently the cops were called to respond to the physical attack against Tatiana Rose. However, when they showed up, they immediately went to work corralling and bullying the black kids who were at the pool. The pool apparently has a rule about how many guests that you can have at a given time. A rule that Tatiana’s mother says is never enforced, except, apparently, when black kids show up. The pool people are also saying now that they never approved the party in the first place. A claim that I find dubious in the extreme.

Brandon Brooks, 15, who shot the video, has since spoken out regarding events as he saw them unfold, saying:

When he pulled his gun my heart dropped. As soon as he pulled out his gun, I thought he was going to shoot that kid. That was very scary… I was one of the only white people in the area when that was happening. You can see in part of the video where he tells us to sit down, and he kinda like skips over me and tells all my African-American friends to go sit down.

I talked yesterday about the privilege of white bodies in a racially charged space. At the time I was under the mistaken impression that the person recording the video was the person speaking up about being related in some way to Adrian, the young man who was hauled into the shot toward the end of the video (and about whom I can find not a single news item or mention). Since Adrian is black, I assumed the videographer was as well. Which was, of course, a foolish assumption. Because I doubt Brooks would have been allowed to continue filming had he not been white.

People are talking about how Cpl Casebolt should have, logically, been on his best behavior since he knew he was being recorded. I don’t know which is the more terrifying conclusion of that train of thought: That Casebolt was on his best behavior during the events of Friday afternoon, or what might have happened if Brooks had not been there and shooting the entire time.

This whole horrible mess has brought up the painful history of segregation and, specifically, the role that pools have played in that segregation. As pointed out in an article in The Atlantic yesterday:

As African Americans fought for desegregation in the 1950s, public pools became frequent battlefields. In Marshall, Texas, for example, in 1957, a young man backed by the NAACP sued to force the integration of a brand-new swimming pool. When the judge made it clear the city would lose, citizens voted 1,758-89 to have the city sell all of its recreational facilities rather than integrate them. The pool was sold to a local Lions’ Club, which was able to operate it as a whites-only private facility.

People are trying to argue that what happened on Friday isn’t about race. There are even black people from McKinney making that argument, saying that their neighborhood is an integrated one and that they have never had trouble with their neighbors. Far be it for me to tell someone from a marginalized community that they are wrong about their experiences. I am glad beyond words that those people feel safe and comfortable within their communities.

That said, I want to challenge the assumption that a community that treats it’s black residents well can not suffer from the impact of racism. Just because a community is not putting on white hoods and trying to run you out of town with burning crosses does not mean that an isolated incident within that community is devoid of racism. I am so happy for residents of the Craig Ranch community that they do not experience racialized violence or aggression in their everyday life. But I do not believe that anyone could reasonably look at the reaction of those officers on Friday and say that it does not have something to do with race. Or at the actions of grown white women throwing racial slurs at a teenage girl. Or at the authorities of the pool who manage to overlook the guest rule until the population of the pool becomes too black for their comfort.

Increasingly, we live in a world of racism with no racists. Eduardo Bonilla-Silva, who’s written a book by that title, says:

“The main problem nowadays is not the folks with the hoods, but the folks dressed in suits. The more we assume that the problem of racism is limited to the Klan, the birthers, the tea party or to the Republican Party, the less we understand that racial domination is a collective process and we are all in this game.”

We tend to think of racism as having something to do with the words that people say. But many people nowadays know that it’s not acceptable to say the “n-word” or to vocally discriminate based on the color of someone’s skin. Of course, actions speak louder than words, and in the case of racism the actions that are continually taken against people of color have not gone away entirely, they have merely gotten less obvious to white people.

Racism is by no means dead, it simply hides in microagressions and in discriminatory policies enacted every day while white people protest that they can’t be racist because they “can’t see race” – thus obliterating the heritage of the people around them – or that they “have black friends” – as if their friends are a trophy or a badge of honor that put them above such things as racial profiling.

When a bunch of black children are violently suppressed at an end of year pool party, when they have guns pulled on them merely for being in a place, when they are told to “go back to their section 8 housing,” there is no word for that type of behavior other than racist.

Get Outraged: Police brutality in McKinney, Texas

Content Advisory: For those of you who did not choose to watch the video of the events in McKinney, Texas this past Friday, be aware that I have provided a description of two portions of the video that could be upsetting to some. I will include a warning before detailing those portions of the video.

I am saying this mostly because I know so many people for whom this is too close to their hearts to speak. I am going to try to articulate events as clearly as possible.

Over the weekend a video surfaced of police officers descending upon a pool party attended by a group of teenagers. In the video, the police attempt to gain control of the situation by brutalizing, belittling, terrorizing, and manhandling a crowd of local teens.

Here is what I have been able to glean from the numerous articles that have been published over the weekend. It appears that the original altercation occurred because several white members of the community began hurling racial slurs at the teens who were having a pool party. The girl who was throwing the party, identified as Tatiana Rhodes, 19, is a member at the pool. According to Tatiana in the video linked above, all of the teens who were attending are members of the surrounding community. Additional video has surfaced of two adult white women locked in a physical altercation with Tatiana before the police arrived.

I, like many of you, resisted watching the video at first. I knew that what I would see would be terrible just from reading the comments I had seen on my social media outlets. Do not watch the video if you think that you would be upset by watching this type of brutality. For those of you who have opted to avoid watching what transpired this Friday in McKinney, Texas, I will summarize, Having finally watched it this morning.

[CA: Do not read the next two paragraphs if you think you would be upset by reading about the brutality in the video.]

The video shows a police officer (who has since been placed on administrative leave) bullying and shouting at teenagers. You can see several cop cars and what I believe can safely be called an overwhelming police presence. At one point, the officer around whom the video centers pulls his gun and runs off screen. He returns dragging a 15 year old girl, who he swings around and manhandles to the ground like a rag doll. He then proceeds to kneel on her back. The girl is sobbing and screaming for those around her to “Call my mama! Oh my god!” One of her friends is standing by with a cell phone and does just that.

While the officer threatens and chases after the young people who have gathered around the girl on the ground, two more officers drag into the frame a young man, handcuffed and dazed. The camera man immediately responds to the young man being brought onto the scene by asking him if he is all right. Adrian (or maybe Andrew?) is placed on the ground on his back. He is breathing heavily and appears to be in respiratory distress. His face appears slack in the video and it is hard to discern whether or not there is blood on his mouth and chin. The camera man repeatedly asks him whether or not he is all right, telling bystanders that he is his cousin, but the young man appears unable to respond.

The rage that I felt watching this video was overwhelming. And there was one person in particular at whom my rage was directed.

Of course I hated the police officer sitting on the sobbing girl in her bikini. I hated him for whipping his gun out and threatening these children. I hated the officers responding to the scene for not directing their authority at the women who had attacked a teenage girl before they arrived. I hated the officers dragging Adrian helpless and limp to the scene. I hated these officers for the pain and fear that I saw in the faces of these kids. I hated them for their failure as police officers to represent themselves and the uniforms they wore with dignity and honor. Overall I despised them for their actions as people in a position of learning and authority who chose not to employ empathy or direct their authority in a helpful and non-violent way.

But there was someone I hated more.

Roaming back and forth and creating a perimeter for the police officer is an older white man. During the course of the video, he actively takes a stance between the officer and the teenagers at one point when the cop is wrestling the girl to the ground. He stands by. He lurks. He ensures that the cop is not interrupted. His white presence being allowed to wander the scene freely is a really strong counterpoint to the bodies of black teenagers as they are corralled and shouted at to leave the vicinity or handcuffed and forced to lay down on their faces.

Watching this video I wanted to leap through my computer screen and shake that man. I wanted to push him down and yell at him. I wanted to say “How can you let this happen to children? How can you be a bystander and allow this kind of abuse to continue? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I wanted to shout him into allyhood. I wanted to ignite him with my rage and turn him back against the men he was smugly and separately observing. It kills me to see people with so much privilege squander it in support of such odious behavior. Being a white male in that situation put this man in a unique position to challenge the officers involved with little to no fear of violent reciprocation. And for that, I hated him.

It should be noted that he was not the only white male taking this position in the video, just the most active. There were several more men milling around on the scene. And their presence was no more positive than his. I spent the entire video waiting for a single white person to walk up to the police and tell them that they were in the wrong. Instead, videos from various angles show these men walking up to the young people trying to defend their friends and telling them to leave.

With everything I have just said, I feel that it must be said that I am deeply ashamed of the behavior of white people in these videos. I feel overwhelming shame that people who look like me could not muster the strength or sanity to stand up for the children in their community against the obviously racist system they were up against this past Friday.

We should do better. We can do better. We need to do more.

There are a lot of things that are still unclear about this story, as it is still developing.

With all of that said, I have the following questions:

  • Why were the women who attacked the young girl who was throwing the party not arrested?
  • Why, when the police were called to deal with an altercation between a teenage girl and an adult woman, was more than one police car sent to the scene?
  • Why did every child at the pool need to be harassed and corralled to deal with an altercation between two older women and a young girl?
  • Why did a 15 year old girl need to be chased down and sat on by a fully grown police officer?
  • What happened to Adrian? Why was he detained at all? Will the police responsible for his treatment be penalized?

More than anything, I will never understand why the police who showed up on the scene in such great numbers were unable to utilize their considerable training in order to deal with an altercation between a small number of people without terrorizing and brutalizing the teens in the vicinity. The fact that this entire altercation began because of the hurling of racial slurs that escalated to racially-motivated violence by adults against teenagers feeds my fury on behalf of these kids and their families.

I hope against all recent evidence that this event will end in punishment being meted out against the officers involved. Their behavior was egregious and unacceptable.

7:00PM EDIT: The officer involved in the incident has been identified as Corporal Eric Casebolt. Cpl Casebolt has previously been charged with profiling, harassment, failure to render aid and sexual assault back in 2008.

Bullying is Bullshit

I went to seven grade schools.

Kindergarten was basically normal. I fingerpainted. My best friend was in the class with me. I remember making paper feathers for a hat at Thanksgiving. It was uncomplicated.

My first grade teacher was evil. We found out later that she wasn’t even qualified to be a teacher. She put children in closets. Including me. She punished you for squirming. I kicked my first boy in the crotch. He would confide in me when we were both 18 that he still possessed a scar. I would tell him that the scar was a lesson that you should listen to girls when they tell you to let them go or leave them alone. Mom moved me because the environment there was so toxic.

I don’t remember much of second grade. I think that it was fine, though. I was bullied, but I don’t remember to what extent. It must have been bad, because Mom moved me to a local Baptist school.

Third grade was the best grade. I was not being bullied. My best friend was in my class. My teacher was red-haired and beautiful. She brought us back cheese from Wisconsin. Someone in the class cut themselves on safety scissors. It was the first time that I had seen blood in that amount. They went home in an ambulance.

In forth grade my teacher was also a Civil War reenactor like my dad. I accidentally told her that I loved her one night when leaving the Civil War museum. She was kind. And warm. And nurturing. Like a favorite aunt. I really did love her.

My best friend left my school in fifth grade. Suddenly the bullying was too much to bear. Girls in my class telling me that I could be the servant when we played princesses on Church days because my dresses were not as nice as theirs… suddenly stung. And my old retreat between a building and a wire fence where I would pretend to be a pilot, sketching out drawings in chalk on the stone and pressing buttons that would take me to Where They Were Not, was profoundly isolating without a co-pilot. My mother elected to move my brother and I to home schooling.

Sixth and seventh grade were spent at home. My dad was my history teacher. I spent hours with my mom out in the woods learning the names of trees and rocks and rivers. I poured over Civil War era maps with my father. I had a few friends from local home schooling groups. One of them had a deer named Dawn who lived in her back yard and would gently take offered grain from my hand. Most of the home schooling groups were fundamentalist Christians, however, and I grew tired quickly of having them tell me that my family was going to Hell. Additionally, I had a hard time adjusting to the idea of my mother as a teacher and respecting her as such. So the decision was made to send me back to school. I did not pass the entrance test for eighth grade, however.

The second go of seventh grade was more difficult than school had been to that point. I was close enough to walk home, but my bully followed me. She whispered death threats in my ear in class and followed me home until, one day, terrified, I threw a metal trash can at her face and ran. After a quarter of the year had gone by, my mother was fed up and I was terrified. The Principle told my mother than I could deal with the problem or get out. We got out.

Seventh grade part three was easier. I was not afraid of what passed for a bully in the new school. She tried to push me down the hill at lunch. I stood stock still and laughed. She made fun of my pads and the boys joined in, so I threw them at the crowd of shrinking boys and they scattered like schools of fish before me. I felt the flavor of future power as I laughed off her pale attempts at playground butchery.

In eighth grade I had a new best friend. I was a little in love with her. I had followed her around the playground and begged her to be my friend. Eventually she would come on vacations with me and my family. I was so grateful to have a friend. And she was so lovely.

In high school my fifth grade bully would find me, now a grade ahead of me because of my having repeated seventh grade. She asked me if she could be my “big sister” and show me the ropes.

I threw my head back and I laughed.

Adult Life Lesson #359

You are going to keep running across things you didn’t realize you should have known the year before. And you are going to feel like a total idiot for not realizing it earlier. And it’s gonna just keeeeeep happenin, so you might as well get used to it.

Case in point, my refrigerator.

This weekend Frankie and I went to AC Moore as we are wont to do on a weekend. As we were leaving the house to go over I told her that I would like to get a thing that we could use to make cold brew coffee this summer and easily store it in the fridge. She agreed that would be a great idea.

Hey there, good lookin!
Hey there, good lookin!

On my way into AC Moore I see this lovely fella.

And I’m like “Shut up and take my money, AC Moore. And stop reading my goddamn mind.”

So we get it and we take it home and I clean it out and put the little nozzle on it and go to put it in the fridge. Fuck. Too tall.

I decide not to fuck with it too much because Hilary and Thomthulu are coming over and it’s just not worth the frustration.

But after they leave I decide to empty the fridge and put the shelves and stuff in different places. I move one of the smaller shelves down to accomodate the new addition and it all fits perfectly. But I have this extra wire shelf that just… won’t fit now? And it bothers me because it doesn’t make sense that we would have a shelf that just doesn’t go in the fridge for some reason.

Then it hits me.

Behold: The way my fridge should have looked for the past year and three months.
Behold: The way my fridge should have looked for the past year and three months.

It belongs in the freezer.

And I open the freezer door and there are these holes that are set perfectly for the thing to fit in there and I’m just gobsmacked. Like, how have we lived here for over a year, bitching the entire time about how unruly our fucking freezer is, mind, and not realized that this stupid wire shelf belongs up there? The wire shelf doesn’t even really fit in the fridge. It slides back and forth and stuff falls behind it. It’s just… impractical.

So yea. You’re never too old to learn new things. Or to feel like a dumb ass for not having learned them sooner.

Whee, adulthood!