Sunday

A little while ago, I had a weekend that can more or less be described as “hectic.”  Not BAD hectic, but not calm-like-still-water hectic either.

Looking back over this blog always makes me wonder if I'm doing too much but
I don't really have time to think about it because I'm planning another project.

"Andy's" dream weekend

“Andy” went out of town on that Thursday morning.  He was going to see dear wonderful friends that we love and watch something like 1,000 slasher films at a Halloween themed movie marathon.  I was invited, and under other circumstance, would have loved to have gone—but the two preceding weeks I was on the road more than I was home, and had just finished that

My dream weekend

odyssey when go-time for final decisions about the trip

 needed to be made, and I just…didn’t have it in me.  Even though there is a lemur exhibit at the local museum, and I love our friends very much.  I just couldn’t wrap my head around not being in slobby pjs covered in cats, so I stayed home.

Having a few nights alone in the house is sort of fun and sort of leaves me at over-ambitious but essentially loose ends.  For example: that Thursday night I came home and, within 2 hours, had touched every kitchen device in the house.  Food processor, electric mixer, instant pot, even the ol’ 

Reader, did you know that fruit leather,
a healthy snack made through the use of a
standard dehydrator,
looks almost exactly like a puddle of cat vomit?

dehydrator got pulled out.  After my whirlwind kitchen project extravaganza I was left with a savory pumpkin-sweet potato puree (healthy and delicious! Perfect for making pancakes, soup, or fritters! Which now I have to eat a lot of, before it goes bad!), dried cucumber and onion chips (I refuse to explain myself), a new batch of kimchi (I don’t have to explain myself), a mess of a kitchen, and a sense of accomplishment that quickly turned to dread because it was only like 7:15, I had finished the TV show I’d been watching (WHICH IS PERFECT), and I had nothing else to do for my night.

The show is on Netflix.  It's called
Rookie Historian Goo Hae-Ryung
and it is HILARIOUS.  Set in ancient Korea.
Worth the subtitles.  So. Good.

I restarted the TV show.  That’s how desperate it got.

The next day, I got out of the house in the evening and went to see a friend.  It was a lovely time.  I also confirmed with my sister that I was having her two tallest children over for a sleepover the following day. 

Her oldest has been asking to come over for a sleepover like every 20 seconds all summer, and the answer is always yes but also…  I love these children more than my breath, but finding a free weekend night has been a struggle.  Low and behold, I had a whole free weekend!   No plans, because I’d basically been holding the time for the trip that I ended up too frazzled to make it on, then decided to fill it right back up!  So c’mon girls, let’s have a sleep over!  

I spent the morning doing ridiculous things like vacuuming my car and mowing the lawn as though it was my Dowager Countess-esque mother coming over and not a 6 and 8 year old.  They got here in the afternoon and we discovered we had each, separately, made a list of fun, meaningful, memory making activities with which to fill our time and symbolize our love for each other. 

So we def set out to ambitiously make it through these lists and—if I do say so myself, we did a great job:

Going to the garden and harvesting collards for dinner?  Check.  

Grocery store trip to get ingredients to bake cookies?  Check.  

A healthy dinner consisting of whole, homemade ingredients including herbs the girls picked from the yard.  SO check.  

Is this child just...eating a raw
collard green leaf?
Yes she is.

Decorating the whole house for Halloween?  Super spooky check.  

Building a tent out of blankets and sheets?  Double check—one in the guest room, and one in the master bedroom.  

Fashion show where I have to explain to my niece she can’t pick out which dresses I will wear from my closet because those are my THIN dresses that I only keep out of stubbornness and nostalgia?  SO MUCH CHECK. 

Behold....fashion!

In the morning we made those cookies, and then like a sane and reasonable person I pulled out a circular saw and some house paint, and we made personalized tombstones for them to take home and decorate their own yards.  Tis the season.

True story, I could have just let
them chase the cats around the whole
time and they would have been
just as happy.

They left around noon and I was like, I don’t even know who I am right now.  It is NOON and I have BAKED and SAWED and my house is a WRECK and IT IS ONLY NOON.

So I sort of reclaim the house, rearrange some of the decorations because the short people have very strong opinions when they are here and I can’t make them understand why you can’t stack pumpkins in front of the TV or move the lamp off of the end table, but then they leave and turns out, it’s my house.

I decide I’m going to make soap, because I’ve been intending to make soap for a while and I still have that high voltage urge to DO, plus some time, plus an innate inability to sit down and chill like a normal person.

I make the soap.   I find somewhere to cure the soap.  I pace a little.  I am still in my pjs, which absolutely are now sporting evidence of the day’s baking, sawing, painting, and soap making on them, which I find inspirational.  I see the couch.  I see the cats, the promise of my dream fulfilled.  I crash out, put on Netflix, and heave a sigh of contentment.

This last about 3 minutes before, while trying to turn up the volume, I accidentally hit some other button and the whole system of the television realizes its true master is not at the helm and abruptly reminds me that *my* tv watching station is outside on my tablet and NOT on the couch.  It shuts down my show and refuses to get back to Netflix. 

I have all the appropriate feelings about this, and may or may not have sent “Andy” a series of texts using words like “EMERGENCY” and the lord’s name in vain, but he, as mentioned above, is in a movie marathon. 

I glance outside, but it’s raining.  FINE.  I AM UNDETTERED.  I get out the book I’ve been meaning to start, and curl up on the couch, finally relaxing, finally chill, finally in my slobbiest pjs covered in cats.

This is how I imagine myself.

At some point, I notice my phone tell me that an Amazon package is on the way.  Earlier Amazon had told me my package would not be on the way today, because reasons, but I am delighted at this new turn of events.  I have ordered an adorable cloche hat and am looking forward to wearing it with style.  The tracking tells me only 8 stops before mine!  Fabulous.  I go back to my book.

A while passes and I decide to check the porch—then, come to think of it, when did I last check the mail?  That’s usually “Andy’s” job, I did check it at some point, idk when, I might as well.  I step onto the (package-free) stoop, shut the door so the cats won’t get out, take a step, and realize-

I have locked myself outside.

I have turned the handle lock out of habit, like when I leave for work.  I have pulled the door shut—can confirm, Reader.  Definitely locked.  Definitely shut.  I tried it like 15 times.

Ok, I think, let’s assess this situation.  It’s dark out, it’s raining…but I don’t have to poop or anything, so we can get through this.  The back door might be open, let’s start there.  Of course we have a big privacy fence around our back yard, tall and not built for climbing—well, let’s just go check it out. 

Assessing the situation.

Turns out the fence is super easy to scale when properly motivated, especially when once you’re in the air above it, you realize exactly what this looks like to any curious neighbors and you go fast-like-a-bunny to make that a limited viewing option.

The back door is of course locked, because I am a responsible adult who believes in safety.   Also the dog was deeply confused and really sad, because here I was at the back looking like I was opening the door for him to join me in his favorite place, the outside, but I wasn’t opening the door, I was just cruelly taunting him. 

Fine, door’s locked—more assessing.  Maybe the windows?  We open those sometimes, maybe one is unlocked?  Then I hear a noise—over the fence and across the street, someone is loading their car up like they’re going out.  “Perfect!” I think.  “I’ll call to them over the fence, and ask for help!”

Hahahahahaha No.

J/k.  No I don’t. That is absolutely not what I do, Reader.  Rather, I hide in the shadows and wait for them to entirely pack up and leave, because I don’t want them to see me doing shady ish like peering into the windows checking to see if they’re locked.  I literally waited in the dark, in the rain, hiding in my own back yard—the one I am in RIGHT NOW as I type this, NOT hiding, with no sense that anyone might think I am a home invader.

I start to process this home invasion angle—what if someone does call the police, I think?  “Well, then maybe they can get the door open,” replies the naivest part of me, “Surrrre, with their state issued lock-picking tool sets that they always carry on their Batman utility belts to home invasion calls,” finishes the thinking part of me.  Also this entire tragedy is figuring heavily in my mind.  Right, ok, back to assessing.  First let’s get back to the front door—but this time over the shadoweyest, tree-coveredest part of the fence that goes to the alley between our house and the neighbors.  I go back to my stoop, to get out of the rain. 

“FINE,” says naïve voice again, “but maybe they have tools for this at the station, and it’s not a far walk!”

Thinking part of my brain weighs in.

This is when it really sinks in that I’m barefoot.  I mean, I’ve been barefoot the whole time, but this is when the significance of that sinks in.

Well, I know how to pick a lock…I just don’t have lockpicks.  I start to assess again—this time assessing the environment.  There’s the Halloween decorations we’d just put out, and there are wires on them, but none of the right strength and size.  Not a bunch of hair pins just sprinkled around the yard, it turns out.  My car is there—wait, didn’t I see once that you can use the wire in a windshield wiper to pick a lock?  There’s some way to do it, I saw it on a youtube video one time….

And this is when it really sinks in that I don’t have my phone.  It's true, you can make lockpicks with a windshield wiper wire.  But I would need one other thing to really do it right and that thing is a tutorial.

So let us continue to assess.  I am barefoot, in my shabbiest pajamas, locked out of my house, in the dark, in the rain.  I do not have my phone.  There is not a hidden key; there is not an unlocked window.  I do have “Andy’s” phone number memorized, but he is in another state, in a movie marathon.  



However.  He has his mother’s number, and she lives about 15 minutes away and is, as far as I know, the only possessor of a spare key.  Gotta get to “Andy,” thinking part of my brain says. 

I consider the neighbors I know—or more specifically, the ones who know me and are least likely to shoot this hobo looking person coming up to their house at night.  I start knocking on doors, but no one I know is home.  I’m on the verge of knocking on other doors, when I see, in the distance, a woman walking under an umbrella up a side street.  And then, like a character in one of the horror movies my husband was surely enjoying at that very moment, I follow her. 

Reader, I know I look like a stalker, and a homeless one at that, but it made sense to me at the time.  She’s way ahead of me though (in retrospect, hopefully far enough ahead that she didn’t even know I was coming after her through the rainy night like a crazy person) and makes it into a house before I’m close enough to call out.  Now I’m at the end of a cul-de-sac in our neighborhood and I’m realizing it’s time to knock on strangers’ doors.  In fact, there is a house down there with lots of lights on.  Lots of cars in the driveway.  Their glass door is shut but the real front door is open.  I start to approach…

And this is when it really sinks in that I’m not wearing a bra.  It’s chilly and rainy out.  I do NOT want to walk up on a party.  Look, it’s an option, Reader, I know it’s an option, but....

We're just not there yet.

I start my way back toward our house—and low and behold, a car has pulled into our driveway.  A woman gets out in an orange safety vest, and I call to her:

Hey, are you the Amazon lady?

The origin of the praise hands emoji.

Yes.

Hi—I live here, this is my home.  I locked myself out, could I borrow your phone to call my husband??

Now let us take a moment for her to asses.   I come, out of the darkness like a forlorn spirit, from across the street, wet, barefoot, no bra, dirty clothes, hair every which way, saying I live here in this house I was not just at and please could you interact with me and in fact hand me your phone, I promise I am not a vagrant.

I looked like this, Reader.

And, god bless her, she does.

I call “Andy” from this unknown number while he is a movie marathon two states away, planning to leave a message then send a text but, god bless him, he answers.

I try to explain my situation which he broadly gets because this is not a moment that calls for specifics, and says he’ll call his mom and call me back—but he can’t call me back, because I’m on this lady’s phone and she has deliveries to make.  So I say good bye, and hand her back the phone.  

She hands me my package, says good luck.  

She drives away.  

I go back to sitting on the stoop.

It occurs to me that I should make a decision about how long I’m going to just sit and wait before I find another phone—what if his mom is asleep and doesn’t get the call?  What if she’s out of town?  What if something else?  

It also occurs to me that I have no idea what time it is, nor how fast time is passing, nor any way to figure those things out.

I consider what a good job we did with the front yard decorations.

And then, god bless her, “Andy’s Mom” comes.  She lets me in and is very sweet.  She leaves and I sit and think about my life.  All this happened because life doesn’t have a 20 second rewind button, and I decided I was going to check the mail.

The mail doesn’t come on Sundays.

Jelly Life

To be more accurate, this picture should involve more burns
and allude to an imminent invasion of sugar ants.

I had some days off around this Labor Day holiday, and decided it was going to be all projects, all the time.  That is not different from my usual free time, except this was the first four day stretch I’ve been at home in a while.  Usually I try and use vacations to – well, to go on a vacation, right?  Do something.  Go see “Jen” at her country manse, head to a cabin with friends or some hub city I don’t know much about and eat my way through their culinary footprint.

I recommend this restaurant to anyone,
and not just for the name.

Get a boozy cake, Reader.
Get them all.

This year, with the crazy whirwind marital bliss of wedding and honeymoon and Family Camp, that is the last thing on earth I want to do.  (Funny story, I still can’t talk about Thanksgiving plans even though YES OBVIOUSLY WE’RE GOING TO SEE THE FAMILY I just can’t say it out loud yet.  Dealing with my internal toddler is like trying to catch the monsters when they get out.  If you take the direct approach, your prey will bolt.  You must instead sneak up from the side, nonchalant as

Careful...she's on to you.

a summer breeze, avoiding all eye contact and pretending like you just happen to also find that patch of grass fascinating before you swoop in and, in this case, put the internal toddler into a headlock and haul her to DC for some family bonding.)

So looking at this swath of glorious free days during which I wore a bra twice, took a shower once, and checked the news not at all, I have been focused on kitchen projects.  Specifically, canning.

This lady is trying to preserve the American Way.
Also she wrote a book on freezing??

Not sure that's...nope, actually,
you know what,
no followup questions.

Canning is relevant because I’m having friends over in October to teach them how to can so it felt like maaaaybee?  It is somethiiiinnnng? I should be sure I remember how to do???  Canning is not at all difficult, but it is it’s own process and can be intimidating.  Your grandmother did it, and your great grandmother, and on back for time immemorial since long before the invention of the mason jar (1858 if you're keeping track at home) and they managed without any of today’s modern conveniences like electric kettles and gas stoves and central heating and air so that you don’t die in your sweltering kitchen, so I promise it really is simple. 

But also botulism, amirite??  Plus, people may point out (and I’m looking at you here, “Stephen”) that you can go buy canned goods for very small monies if you are dying for mushy carrots.  OR, you can just go buy carrots, sans mush.  You know this, I know this, and you know I know this.  If you have been paying any attention at all Reader, you know that this is irrelevant. 

(I mean I could make an argument here for how many black eyed peas I’m pulling in from the garden that need to be stored but like….that’s def not what I canned.)

So I go to my trusty “what if I wake up and there was some sort of improbable-to-the-point-of-impossible cosmic event where 95% of people disappear and the power grid is offline and the phones are down and somehow I’m still here trying to rebuild civilization from scratch” bookshelf, and start pulling out books about food in jars. 

Also on this book shelf: books about navigating on the open seas with no compass even though I don’t live near the ocean! Books about raising livestock in your backyard even though we're definitely not zoned for that!  Books about living alone in the woods with nothing but a pocket knife even though I have a cell phone and Verizon actually can hear me now!  I am not a prepper, Reader.  But I am a goblin, and it turns out I end up on a lot of prepper-adjacent websites.

I digress.

Compasses are for cheaters.

Full disclosure, I haven’t read through many of these food-in-jars books in anything you might consider detail.  (Although I read through all of the "find your way through the woods without a map" book and now I know why they say moss grows on the north side of trees and how to find south-ish if the moon is out and yet can still get lost in my closet and it is NOT A BIG CLOSET.)  I have skimmed the canning books, then when I realized it was mostly recipes for things to put in cans and not some history of canning as a science and an art I sorta stopped skimming.  I can Google recipes.  I’d rather read to understand canning more, but it turns out those are not the books I bought and then I already spent my weird-survivalist-book-budget money on the books I have.  Plus I have the internet.

This flippant attitude has meant that I absolutely did miss some interesting factoids about canning as a science and an art that I figured out over the last few days when casting a more diligent eye over these books.  For example, you can add lemon seeds in a little spell packet made out of cheesecloth to whatever you’re trying to jelly and it’ll add pectin, which turns jelly from diabetes syrup into spreadable diabetes goop.  

If you were to find this intriguing you might ask other relevant questions such as "how many seeds?" or "how long do they need to be in there?" and you will not find those answers but you will learn that jelly and jam might take up to two weeks to set into a recognizable-as-jelly form, so you have no short term way of experimenting to see if you did it right.

This two-week fact in particular strikes me as strange, because what….is pectin?  (Great question, Reader!  But not the kind of question these books answer.)  What is it that it might take up to two weeks to work?  Is it….alive, like a yeast, so might need time to get up and running based on other things that are or are not present in the mix?  Is it having some sort of chemical reaction that might, for unknowable (j/k it’s totally knowable, they just don't tell you, but hey, we have the internet) reasons go super slow sometimes, but fast other times?  

Just for funsies as I made my little seed sachet, (Reader, we even own pectin.  I already have pectin.  Pectin would not have required an errand.  But like...I just wanna make pectin anyway.)  I casually glanced over the troubleshooting section of reasons your jelly might not set and it goes like this:

Got it?  Got it!

     - Too much sugar

     - Not enough sugar

     - Too much pectin

     - Not enough pectin

     - Over cooked

     - Under cooked

     - Look, stop reading this list and go back and try again—it could have been anything, you just did something wrong.

     - Or it might be fine!  Give it two weeks!

Water bath canning involves submerging your jars of food
in boiling water for a period of time, heating them and pushing
air out of the lids to ensure everything is cooked and sealed.

This is distinct from pressure canning, which requires buying
special equipment and is used for meats because it
achieves a temperature above boiling.

I also looked up botulism, and got some interesting perspective there.  As a modern home canner, this is the elephant in the room—the huge, terrifying, very deadly, rampaging elephant that wants to stomp you out like a fire in the Serengeti.  If you, Reader, do not have a healthy respect for this bloodthirsty fiend, just casually find a Facebook group about canning and mention adding flour as a thickening agent or water bathing meat and wait for the carnage.  Mention that you carefully washed your mason jars in soap and hot water but did not actually boil them before use.  The canning police are out there, and they are vigilant with a righteous vigilance because they are trying to save your life.  Botulism is an ELEPHANT but not like a cool smart matriarch grandma elephant or like an adorable playful baby elephant but more like an evil soul-eating litch elephant, and she WANTS TO KILL YOU.  

However.  Botulism is also very rare.  It is caused by a bacteria found usually in the soil that can’t live in acidic environments.  So like…just wash everything good in soap and hot water and then add some lemon juice so that even if it did somehow sneak past your defenses and invade your home canning set-up, it’ll die before it can kill you. 

I know that sounds casual but not because I don't fear botulism.  I do.  It sounds casual because science.  There are charts about how acidic or alkali whatever you are canning is, and then how much lemon juice or vinegar to add.  Throw in some extra if you’re nervous—canning is simple, and our grandmother’s grandmothers did it, in feast and famine, on the run and high on the hog.  It is perfectly doable to do safely in your home, and our home is much cleaner than my great-grandmothers'.   Also you can just put the mason jars in the oven for 30 min at 250 and it’ll kill all the bad germs and you don’t have to wait for water to boil.   I’m saying, this whole process isn’t as intimidating as it gets credit for.

Pressure cooking is recommended for meat, but you can water bath it, you just have to do it forrrrrreeeeeverrrrr (like as long as you think that means, and add 2 hrs) and it’s going to make your house all hot so just…be ready for that.  Maybe more of a winter activity.

Are you grossed out by the idea of canning meat?  So am I!  Well, I was, til I stopped thinking about just…chunks of meat, and instead about "Andy's" chili and homemade beef stew and chicken noodle soup that I def have cans of in the pantry already but these would be hommmeeeemmmaaaaaaade.  "Stephen" I can hear you rolling your eyes from here.  Now look, if

Probably saving your LIFE, "Andy."
THAT's what I'm doing.

you home make beef stew or chicken noodle soup, you can just freeze those and not have to either buy a pressure canner or spend hours in the same house as a giant boiling water pot, but when the improbable-to-the-point-of-impossible cosmic event happens, or more realistically in my house, your freezer is already full of brown bananas you may or may not one day turn into banana bread and chicken skins cuz you wanna render fat for fun and vegetable broth cuz you had saved so many onion and carrot and parsley scraps but have no plans to make soup in the foreseeable future, OR for any coastal Readers out there, when Dorain is coming and the power may well go out for a while but you made it to the grocery store after everyone cleared out the canned soups and stews and besides you really need the comfort of "Andy's" chili recipe to help you weather the storm, then canning might be a good option for you.

All of this is to say, I did some canning this weekend.  I didn’t venture into the kitchen-steaming world of stew or chicken noodle soup, but I did make a jelly and a jam.  They both have plenty of lemon juice.  The second time went smoother than the first, logistically, and I really need to invest in a wide mouth sieve because the dog ate ours and ladling liquid molten sugar goop into mason jars is...not ideal.  The day started with me telling “Andy” to stay upstairs for six hours because the kitchen was going to be a Situation.  But man, everything smelled good.  I made my own pectin because of course I did, and they’re definitely all still runny because of course they are.  Call me in two weeks and I’ll tell you if it set.

Lawn Art

For reasons that are directly related to the state of the world today, I have decided I need to change the magnet on the back of my car.  Also, to get a lawn sign.  

I know, I'm basically a national hero over here.

Look, as things get worse out there I think it’s more and more
important to be clear and public about where you stand on some things.  This is especially true, I believe, as a white person.  This is not the time to keep your head down and just hope for the best.  I’m pretty sure neither my lawn nor my bumper are going to change the world, but work with me here, Reader. 

The car magnet I currently have is an American flag.  As of this writing, it’s on the fridge, not the car.  Let me be crystal clear about three things:

1) I love my country very much.  I love the ideals she was built on if not the materials she was built out of.  I believe in America, and I think it’s important to remember that ESPECIALLY now with everything going on.  The Far Right doesn’t get to corner the market on patriotism.  

2) I put that magnet on my car in the first place so that I would remember what this country is supposed to be, and to challenge myself not to let my bitterness and anger about her current state turn into bitterness and anger about her potential.  It’s been a struggle.

3) It seems to me that, for myself, I need that message to have a little more nuance these days.  I mean, Reader, white lady with an American flag magnet on her car in 2019, what do YOU assume about her when you drive by?   What message do YOU assume she is amplifying?  And therefor: what message AM I amplifying?  

Is it her.....................or them
that you assume is driving the car?

So I want to give that message some….tone.

This finds me here, looking for perhaps a sticker or other magnet to supplement or give context to the one now on the fridge.  Because this is the part of the story where it feels uncomfortable to represent myself as a patriot, without clarifying what kind of patriot.  (Here's a hint: not this kind.)

This was my favorite bumper sticker
 I'd ever seen for YEARS.

 I have a real concern that what I am amplifying is the lies, hatred, white supremacy, bigotry, and cruelty that is running rampant out there wearing all the trappings of patriotism.  I do want to support what this country could be, should be.  So here we are.

Gonna rock it til the wheels fall off.

In the field of possible car decoration, there are many options.  I’ve never had stickers on my car, even funny ones, sort of for the same reason I don’t have visible tattoos.  I certainly appreciate them on your car, Reader, but what if that’s not how

This is true even though it's about my cat.

I’m feeling at every stoplight on every day, for all the years it takes me to drive my little car into the ground, which I intend to be many??  I mean I don’t even wear earrings.  Deciding to permanently accessorize my car is complicated.  My life is so difficult. 

“Andy” is on board with lawn signage assuming it’s not just value-signaling self-congratulating progressive trappings, and I agree—despite the vast courage and expense it requires to put a stupid sign in my yard, the goal here is not to sleep better at night patting myself on the back cuz I solved racism and fought off oppression.  I do hope to signal to my neighborhood where we stand.  I do think it’s important right now to be public about that stance.  I want to be actively boosting signals of love and justice.  I think a lawn sign is not a heavy lift.

This is not the kind of sign I am looking for but how effing adorable is it????

How does one begin a search for yard signs (and car magnets) that properly convey the messages I am looking for?  Well, one starts by going to Etsy!

On Etsy one can type in, say, “in this house we believe in” and see what happens.  What happens is a lot of versions of the following:

If this is the right sign for YOU, Reader, it can be found here!

I’m into it but it feels a little...idk, on the nose.  Too broad, too..."LOOK AT HOW PROGRESSIVE I AM".  Something.  I keep looking.

One can also type in “political yard signs” and be greeted with an array of choices.  Most of them are pretty left leaning but honestly I don’t know if that’s real or if the algorithms clocked me and Etsy knows what it should and shouldn’t show me if it wants my money and also for me not to rage-quit the internet.  

For example.....

Some of these signs are angry and funny and snarky, but that’s not what we’re looking for here.  I mean, I am usually angry, sometimes funny, and definitely snarky.  But the goal is not to amplify division and anger (even funny anger).  

Alright, Etsy...I forgive you.
Is this the right sign for YOU, Reader? It can be found here!

So something kinder….but not some “be kind plsthx” mess that really only confirms that I am a suburban white woman and is not at all doing the thing I am trying to do here.  Which is obviously changing the world one neighbor-walking-the-dog-who-glances-at-our-house at a time.

There are also some particularly timely options which feel right until I remember our news cycle is about 45 seconds long these days and the second I put this in my yard I will need to also put up this and then this.

As a conscientious consumer, one must also consider where one's money goes.  The big, makes-everything business who does this on the cheap?  The black lady in Oregon, a state that had a white’s only law on the books until (wait for it) 1922?  The small business owner dude with the beard and the man bun?  The lady who also makes conservative stickers?   They’re all just trying to make a buck, feed their family, live their lives.  But also I get to pick who I give my money to.

So now I’m looking for the Holy Grail of lawn signs.  Beware all ye who enter the realm of seeking grace through signage, lo may many false idols entrap you.  Including overthinking the sign you put in your yard that doesn’t change lives and also probably no one notices.

Also including trying to find grace in a sign in the first place.

On the car sticker side, there’s a whole next level of snark and anger, which I often get a chuckle out of on other cars but don’t necessarily want on my own for reasons discussed above.  Worth mentioning, there are some other concerns when we’re talking about car statements.   I travel a lot for work, wayyyyy down the pig trails into the rural parts of the state.  To do my job, the one that pays me my monies, the one that I agreed to do on the road in my car, I need to have work-appropriate opinions on my bumper that do not represent our organization in a way that might endanger our efficacy or reputation.  Plusalso I don’t want to get in a fight at a gas station or a 2-star motel in East Bajezus, Georgia.  But like, some things we all agree with, right? 

But do we?  

In 2016, I went to a BLM march in downtown.
On the way home in my Black Lives Matter t shirt,
I stopped at my local RaceTrac
and as I walked across the parking lot
in the safe suburban neighborhood where I lived,
someone yelled out at me,
"Hey, were you down there with all them n*****s?"

And when I looked for them, I couldn't find them.
And that was not way down the pig trails.

Are my bumper stickers something I'm supposed to tell my boss about?  Is this what it feels like to suddenly worry you won’t “pass” in risky social situations? 

I lived in the 6^th district when Jon Ossoff was running.  I remember watching a story unfold—a conservative local man in what he (I, we all) presumed to be a solidly ruby red district was seeing all these lawn signs go up for Ossoff.  He was flummoxed, and was calling for, if I remember correctly, the city to something about it.  He posited—like, Reader, walk with me on this journey. 
He thought this through and decided this made the most sense, this was the logical conclusion he came to, and believed it enough to complain to the powers that be—that a secret cadre of Unscrupulous Liberals were, under cover of darkness, sneaking signs onto properties of good, hard working, tax-paying Regular People, who were themselves so busy with the day-to-day grind that they weren’t noticing so weren’t taking the offending signs down.  Thus these crafty, low down, morally bankrupt ne’er-do-wells were misrepresenting the amount of support Ossoff had in the district as well as abusing their fellow decent citizens’ first amendment rights.  And the city should do something about it.

The truth was, Ossoff had a lot more support on the ground than everyone had assumed.  Seeing those signs gave me hope.  They especially gave me hope considering that, a year earlier coming up on the presidential election, I was on a locked down super-secret liberal Facebook page where we would privately root for Clinton and against Trump, and express our opinions publicly irl only through the timidest of ways.  Paint one fingernail blue.  Rearrange the paint-at-home letters in the arts and crafts isle at Target to say HRC.  Wear red one day.  Quiet, tiny stuff like that.

Like this, but political.

And that tiny stuff, Reader—when you stumbled upon it in the wild, it felt amazing.  Having assumed yourself to be alone, you were instead suddenly aware you were a part of something bigger.  Broadly unseen, but present.  It felt good. Again, it felt like hope.

Anyway, so now we’re getting a lawn sign.  I can do my tiny timid part for hope, right?  And STILL do the other, bigger things.  We’re getting it from Etsy, from a small business owner I want to give my money to (spoiler alert: it’s Oregon).  I’m not exactly setting the bar for freedom fighter over here, but given how I spent last week in a ball under the table, it’s something.  The person that the sign is really talking to is me, reminding me that I have a voice and challenging me to use it.

I'm thinking about getting one for the garden too.