Back to the F*%#re


I mean…dam, Marty.

Hey kids! Let’s watch a show–
A movie your dad and I both know.
It’s kid-friendly time-traveling fun,
With a quantum-modified DeLorean!

Imagine my delighted surprise
At the potty-mouth on that McFly.
More education than we bargained for
With that god-damned f$#% capacitor.

I am the last person to get after someone for their language, unless I physically made that person. I firmly believe that there are no bad words, just inappropriate times to use them, but when you’re this many (holds up five fingers), every time is the inappropriate time.

We did not remember the extent or the creativity of the swearing in Back to the Future. Have my kids heard some of it? Sure. Usually not in a sanctioned venue that Mom is encouraging them to be a part of. I told myself afterward that it’s better that they hear it at home. Wait. What? Shit, that isn’t right, is it?

98.8% Is Fine


The Ancients thought the solar eclipse
Was the wrath of the great I Am.
In modern times, there’s wrath indeed–
In this God-forsaken traffic jam.

Oregon normally has a population of around four million people, not counting Sasquatch.  On Monday, thanks to the solar eclipse, we’re supposed to have an extra million visitors in the state (and not evenly dispersed).  The traffic started yesterday, and the logjam of RVs, rental cars, and out-of-towners will only get worse.  (If you’re wondering why Oregon is especially blessed with solar tourism, we are the closest destination for all of Asia.)

We live just outside the band of totality.  I am NOT driving the 20 miles to be in totality on Monday.  We’re going to hang out with our neighbors, drink up the champagne they don’t want to move to Idaho, and not be in the car for six hours.

Side note:  That little orange dot in the glasses is the sun.  I hope everyone feels like they got their money’s worth afterwards.



what’s brown and sticky?
someone’s been walking their tree
oaken excremEnt

I once seriously considered starting a Tumblr of “Toys that look like turds.”  I had small children and small geriatric dogs at the time, and scouring the carpeting before you stepped was a necessary habit.  This beautiful work of nature is about 18″ long, so I have to conclude it’s Ent droppings.  Guess they need to install one of those DogSpot bag dispensers in Fangorn.

Shadow of Momdor


I’m not doing dishes,
The laundry can wait.
I’m taking a break
Before I self-immolate.

I was patient ’til two,
When fit pitching commenced.
Why do days have more hours?
It doesn’t make sense?

The Minion keyboard,
And the too soapy bath,
Your unbrushing of teeth,
They aroused some wrath.

I won’t take it out
On my brood suburban.
Instead I’ll hunt Mordor
And drink all the bourbon.

You go commando,
And eat with no forks.
Mom’s in the basement,
Slaughtering orcs.

I find video games to be very therapeutic in a sort of violently fun way.  I’m about 65% of the way through the Game of the Year Edition of Shadow of Mordor.  I might be able to finish it by the end of the summer, since I don’t play it in front of the kids.  Then it’s on to Witcher III.  My older kid is a Minecraft nerd.  Raisin’ ’em right.  Gonna have some little engineers around here.

Also…there might be some typos because that bourbon isn’t a prop.  C’est la vie.



I’m spending this summer’s TV time on Winchesters,
Because most of my friends are hardcore investors.

Season One left me, frankly, shaking my head.
How are these Duke clones not already dead?

I don’t like Impalas, and neither is my “type,”
The things that they hunt are all bogans and snipe.

I mostly wanted them to STOP WITH THE TALKING.
Get on with the hunting and beheading and stalking.

Season Two was slightly better, less earnestly bad.
Eventually they got over their issues with Dad.

By Season Five, I admit I was hooked.
This show’s better than it initially looked.

It turns out, they needed to poke fun at themselves
While salting and burning the goblins and elves.

Plus wondrous Heaven opened, and deposited Cass.
God’s agenda gave the show quite a kick in the ass.

Ambiguous angel, can we trust him or not?
I’m still not sure, with how far I’ve got.

Sam and Dean are a co-dependent mess,
But I like them both and hope for the best.

They can’t get out of their own way, painfully so.
But their charming flaws are the heart of the show.

I’ve been to Hell and back twice, at the halfway point,
I expect to go again, before we blow this joint.

It’s preposterous fun, all wrapped in the boys,
With a side of humanity under the noise.

When the writing is suspect or the plot gets thin,
I excuse it ’til the good stuff starts up again.

Am I Superfan Becky? Don’t be an idjit.
I ain’t seen every little thing they did yet.


I’m watching Supernatural for the first time, and it’s grown on me a lot.  The lesson there, in some ways, is that fans will excuse a few less than good episodes if you get the big thing right–main characters you care about and want to see succeed.  Bonus points if you read it out loud in your best Bobby Singer.

As for the children in the picture, there’s a month left before school starts and I’ll leave it to you to decide who the salt is protecting.

The Only Princess I Could Be


I started elementary school in 1979.  That’s roughly two years after Star Wars: A New Hope was released, and about a year before The Empire Strikes Back hit the theaters.  Empire was the first movie that my parents took all of us to see, and I vividly remember the experience.  I don’t know if I’d seen the first movie on TV already, but I knew all about it.

I was a strongly opinionated little girl with no tolerance for bullshit and no interest in dolls.  I never lasted long in groups of girls.  They either played some mind-numbingly boring games involving feeding babies over and over, or they spent their time cruelly dividing each other up in order to hurt as many feelings as possible.  They didn’t DO anything.  I wanted to run and jump and use my imagination.  I wanted to have the chance to lead, to pick the adventure.  The girls included me only so long as I played by their rules and stayed in my place.  (Still very bad at staying in my place.)

Something amazing was happening in those years, though.  The boys at school spent every recess playing Star Wars games they’d made up, and I knew Star Wars.  I wanted to play, too, and because of Princess Leia–they needed me.  They didn’t just tolerate a girl playing with them, they had to welcome me and give me equal footing.  I was a part of decisions, I could save the day, and my ideas were just as valid as any the boys had.  During those years, I had a place where my strengths were celebrated as assets.  It was powerful stuff.

Of course, it changed as the boys moved on to Dungeons and Dragons and the girls got meaner.  David Brickey pushed me off the Big Toy and I hit him on the head with my Holly Hobby lunchbox.  Star Wars faded, and the games the boys were playing involved sports (let me tell you how many different kinds of athletic equipment have hit me in the eye) or sound effects that the girls used to mock me without mercy.  The Dungeon Master didn’t have the foresight to realize he would want to date me in high school, and didn’t let me join his campaigns.  I was gently nudged out of the boys’ world and had no place with the girls.  They didn’t want a Leia, they wanted followers.  I couldn’t do that.

It wasn’t all gloom and lonely pre-EMO moping, though.  There was a lot of that, don’t misunderstand, but I also carried that feeling–the truth that inside, I was just as worthy as Carrie Fisher’s unapologetically powerful Princess–for the rest of my life.  When my career was threatened by a traditional firm because I was “abrasive” and “challenging,” I found a better job and left.  I learned a little diplomacy and softened my rough edges, but I never surrendered my fire.  Neither did Princess Leia, and neither did Carrie Fisher.

Thank you for giving a square peg of a little girl the courage to argue that there ought to be a square hole, and a woman the strength not to strive for equality, but to assume it.  I owe you one, my Princess.  More than one.





I think I’m in love with my phone.
I’d like to say “Not like THAT,”
But I’m not so sure that’s true, as I
Swipe this way, oh YES, and that.

I touch it more than my husband,
Passionately sedating myself.
What about him? Oh, I don’t know.
He can take care of himself.

I should put down my screen.
Ask him to go for a walk.
But if we could no longer text,
I can’t figure out how we’d talk?


Note: I’ve found the solution to this is to introduce your elementary-aged children to Pokémon Go. You’ll never have your phone again.  Also, whoops.  I forgot my titles are all caps, and a little capitalization joke wouldn’t show up.  I just didn’t plan ahead for capitalization jokes.