Getting ready to go to work at Grandmothers R Us

***edited to add: my laptop keyboard has been stuck on certain letters for ages now. T is a big one, it won't type a LOT. I try to be mindful about this and push it really hard, so sometimes it doubles, but other times I'm typing too fast to notice and I miss the letter entirely. here are three or four letters that do this, thus there have been a LOT of typos in my blog oveer the last year or so. Consider this my author's note that is longhand for "I am not fixing it, but here's why there are so many typos for the last several months"***

Allen sent me a chat yesterday about this total douche canoe that used to be on the webzine where Allen and I met. We laughed about the song he was referencing, I found the youtube video, we chuckled together, and then I got a massive urge to look through our old zine to read discussions and see our pieces and just like...view who we used to be. 

It was a wild ride. Keeping in mind this was 20 years ago, and if you aren't in a totally different headspace from where you were 20 years ago, I personally believe you're doing something wrong, I expected to cringe a bit at myself. And initially I was cringing at myself in a good natured way. Like, oh isn' funny how arrogant and shitty I was at 20? Isn't it funny to look back at myself with a wiser lens and be able to cluck softly and be like...oh girl, you are going to learn so much in the next two decades. Some of it I was like, a little sad that I was so mean spirited and how much of that cruelty wasn't funny like I thought it was at the time. I've done a lot of cruel things in my life, and said a lot of cruel things, that I did because I have always been a small person. I am deeply insecure, and the easiest way for someone in that position to feel better about themselves is to drag everyone else that seems more confident down into the mud pit where they're currently living. I have been guilty of doing that for the bulk of my life, and I only caught on to how much I did that maybe eight or nine years ago, with the last few years being involved in actively disengaging from the behavior. I also saw myself wanting to fit in with people so desperately that I made myself more like the people I wanted to fit in with, but perhaps I swung the pendulum harder. Maybe I need to give myself grace here, I don't know, but I do know after hours of looking back at a snapshot of why I was, I was a mix of grossed out, and pleased with my growth. 

And then I saw a discussion post that I read and reread about a dozen times that perfectly encapsulates just how fucked up and racist and shitty I have been.

Now, it is not to make myself out as an excellent ally that I am very frank about knowing that I am a racist person. I cannot help it, I was raised in a racist society, and I spent a lot of my formative years in an area where it wasn't even subtle racism, it was deep south kind of racism. While I work hard at being an anti-racist now, it is not up to me to determine how far along I am in that journey, so when anybody asks me if I'm racist, it is my obligation to report that I am. It is not a moniker I wear proudly, but I do think white people, especially white women, owe that honesty to themselves and everyone else. I preface this way because I want it to be clear that I am super aware of who I was, and what I believed, when I started my anti-racism journey. I am honest about it, and I know there are versions of me in that mindset out there. I know I wrote about Korryn Gaines as if her death at the hands of police wasn't racially motivated. I know I was in the all lives matter camp almost a decade ago. I know I leeaned in to white privilege and was pretty fucking glib about it and I thought that made me a good ally, just naming it while still utilizing it. I know I was guilty of white saviorism at the start of my journey, and I probably began my anti-racism journey as a means of bolstering myself rather than wanting to work toward equity and the destruction of oppressive social structures. I've been just about every iteration of white feminist there is. I know this about myself, I am not proud of it but I own because if I don't, I will slip so easily back into that mindset, because white comfort is fucking insanely potent. 

There was a discsussion board where a Black contributor was talking about her life experiences and how she interpreted a piece written by a white dude, and she told him that he couldn't possibly understand how any racialized person would see his piece because he's a white dude. He doesn't know any better. Their discussion went on for quite some time, and then I stepped in and defended half of what he said to her. And she used that as an attempt to call me and and show me my weak spots, which was more grace than I deserved, and more taxing for her than I can know, I must assume. We didn't argue, but only because I have to imagine a lifetime of trying to defend herself against whiteness informed her that arguing with me was futile, but I certainly argued AT her. She ended with telling me that my experience was extremely limited, but she didn't think I was a bad person. Just white. I threwin everything in the white defensiveness paybook at her. "No YOU'RE the racist, actually!" and "here's the racism I experienced growing up in a community where there weren't a lot of white people!" and "You don't know anything about me or my experiences!" and "We may come from the same town, but you are super wrong about racism being present there!" and "if you feel inferior to white people, then I feel bad for you and that is a problem with the way you were raised, not a reflection of reality!" I just word vomited every predictable thing at this girl who was just trying to explain to a bunch of white people she already knew weren't going to listen (that is an assumption on my part, perhaps she held out hope that one of us would see her and appreciate the difference in our lived experiences, I am just drawing conclusions basd on the information I've been given from friends about how talking to white people about Blackness and anti-Blackness tends to go) why a certain article on the zine was tone deaf. 

It isn't exactly like I'm embarrassed by this, I have made no secret about where I came from to get where I am now. What I was was...shocked, I guess, just not in the way where I was like, "I can't believe I was like that!" I know I was like that, I'm not shocked at that. I think what I'm shocked about is actually SEEING it. There's a stark difference between conceptualizing who you were as this nebulous kind of...like...blob of ignorance that you can speak about and be like, oh her? Yeah, she had a lot of learning to do! but you don't actually see the wound, and then...you know. Seeing the fucking wound for what it really and truly was, not what you've idealized it to be. Because...maybe it's just me doing this...but I have to hazard a guess that when we think of where we've come from and how far we've come and how much we've grown, we still idealize our befores. We never want to think of ourselves as truly THAT BAD, even if we acknowledge that we were. I think that most of us, if not all of us, view even the darkest parts of our past selves through rose colored glasses. Really taking a long, hard look at who you were, and acknolwedging the very real things you've said to people that have consequences outside of your scope of understanding is different than being like, I know I said stuff into the ether that was awful, and I know I held beliefs that were rooted in ignorance and willful refusal to engage in conversation about how I as a white person could be wrong about what whiteness really and truly does, but I guess it's been part of a comfort I didn't know I was engaging in to be able to keep that shit nebulous and tidied up.

When I was talking to Derek about this, he asked me if I was going to track her down and talk to her about it, perhaps say sorry for being ignorant. I told him no, I didn't think that was approrpiate, because I can not suss out if the apology was self-serving, and from where I am right now, I am pretty sure the only person the apology would do anything for is me. Though I am not at a point where I feel like I should apologize, despite understanding that the things I said were harmful. I cannot make the call that an apology is not necessary, there is every possibility she thinks one is, and she's felt slighted for years, though I doubt it. Again not to underplay what I said, but because I bet it was just another Wednesday for her, and I was just another white girl, and that version of me being a dumb racist white girl is as nebulous to her as that version of me being a dumb racist white girl was to me two days ago, because...like...ALL of us are me in that conversation all the time. Am I regretful of who I was and how that impacted her? Yup. But would an apology for something like this be anything other than unburdening that regret and passing its torch onto someone else and burdening her with the decision to forgive me or not? Only she can say. 

I am always grateful for opportunities to see how much more space I have to grow and learn and change, because I think the second I get comfortable or complacent in where I'm at, I will slip right back into defensive whiteness. This made me keenly aware of how...in that moment, I felt so sure I was right to call her out the way I did. That it truly WAS her being racist, not me being racist. I stood firm in my convinction, and when other people in the thread jumped to defend me against her, I bet I was properly pleased and even more convinced of how correct and above being racist I was. I worry that I still fall into that trap, though I am not looking for congratulatory defense from anybody when I engage in conversations about racism, because that centers me, and I am not the important person in those conversations. I never have been. 

I guess I'm just hoping that I have learned enough in the last twenty years that I would be upsetting to that version of me twenty years ago, because you guys the race card is SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO tired. And I hope that in another twenty years, if confronted with the things I did not yet know and was not yet aware of because how could I be until someone extends a call in to me, I do not shy from looking away at yet another starting point.

The star power of Ron Livingston

About ten months ago, I started looking at PhD programs. I looked EVERYWHERE. Pretty much all of the states, even the gross ones. I found ten that I liked, and I think four that I really REALLY liked. There is a program in Washington State that I just...I am salivating over still. It is an absolutely amazing program that I am, to my everlasting chagrin, an unqualified candidate for. I spent a few months agonizing over my options while also applauding myself for having the options to begin with (I'm a relatively competitive candidate. Not the greatest, but certainly no slouch), and for various reasons, I decided that the PhD in Education and Human Development at CU Denver was the program that was the best fit for me. I've spent the last few months talking to the faculty, meeting with the director of the program, thinking about the logistics of a move to Denver should I get into the program...I've taken this very seriously. When we were in Colorado, Derek and I were seriously checking out neighborhoods and thinking about livability. 

However.

The way that CU has responded to the student led protests gives me pause about applying, and I am not at all doing a good job selling my hesitation. I wrote an email to the board of regents, despite Derek telling me it would not matter one lick to them what a person who was thinking about applying to their school thought. I know he's right, since they don't care what the people who attend there think, either. I haven't heard back, and I don't expect to. I haven't yet reached out to the direcor of the program, because I am having a hard time letting go of getting my PhD via that program dreams, and I am fairly certain that anything he tells me will not make me change my mind. 

I don't know what to do. Thus far, there is no call to action for pulling yourself as a student from any school, or not applying to any school, and I feel like that's what I should be paying the most attention to, but there's an unrelenting kicking in my gut that says I shouldn't. There are currently no schools that I am a viable candidate for (for reasons of either my academic record leaves me out, or I have no interest in attending the school. Mostly the first one, let's be so for real) who HAVE agreed to student demands of divestment and transparency in where funds are allocated, and while I do think financial pressure is the only language that institutions understand (that and violence), I think that moving in unison with the organizations I trust and am part of is more important. And right now, they're not saying students should withdraw/not apply. I started this blog a few weeks ago, and I've been thinking about how to proceed pretty exclusively in the duration. I think I will apply. I found another program for counseling psychology that I think I'm going to apply to, as well. 

In other news, it's been a bit of a fucking murder spree on the mini Tucci farm. Several months ago, Derek and I made the decision to get more chickens. Well...when I say that, what I really mean is the decision was made for me. At first. Someone told me, "hey. My ducks hatched 3 chicken eggs and now nobody is caring for them, do you want them?" and I was like YOU BET YOUR SWEET ASS. And on my way home with my three new cheep cheeps in tow, I decided they looked lonely, so I stopped by Bomgaars and got three more. We had Fritter, Fucktwat, Maybelline, Kung Pao, Tikka, and Tandoori. After about a week, I told Derek I wanted to go to Cackle to put some real money into our chickens, and get my vanity breeds. So we went and got a few more. We got 7 more. In my defense, I only went to Cackle with the intenion of buying 5, and they gave me two for free. We were raising our girlies, loving on them the way we do, and after about 6 weeks, we were ready to put them outside. Derek and I had spent a really long time digging a predator perimeter, laying down hardware cloth, getting a literal ton of fucking rocks and dumping them in the channels by the coop. We made the coop a fucking fortress of chicken solitude. Nothing too good for our girlies, something my dad thinks is ridiculous. I would send him pictures of my Fritter on my shoulder like a little parrot, and he'd be like, DREA THEY ARE LIVESTOCK ANIMALS, NOT PETS. And I would be like, but why not both? I loved my girlies and gentleman (Kung Pao is a rooster. We could tell about two weeks in, he exhibited clear rooster behavior. We were going to give him to our friend beecause we don't want roosters, but...well. You'll see), so I doted on them. I dote on everyone I love. Derek and I were outside for HOURS shoring up the coop to be Fort fucking Knox, but we had a misunderstanding. There is a hole in the side fence of the run itself. Fairly large, but pretty high up in the fencing, that I noticed and pointed out to Derek. We thought it wasn't great, but ultimately that it was low on the list of things that needed to be dealt with immediately.

As we were getting ready to put the ladies and Kung Pao in their new home for the night, Derek says to me, what about the hole in the side wire? And I said, nah, even if something climbs in through it, the ladies are safe and sound in their coop. And he said, "ok". And we went to bed and awoke to an absolute fucking massacre. We went to bed with thirteen chickens and when we woke up, only seven were alive. I was hysterical. I thought my ladies had been sleeping, they like to stretch out in the warm, but no. They were stone cold fuckin' dead. The littlest ones had been eating, while the bigger ones had just been killed, their little bodies strewn about the coop like trash. Among them my sweet Fritter. My Fritz. She was bossy and I loved her. We all did. She was first to come up to you and fly up onto your shoulder. I loved her so desperately, she was a wonderful little chicken. We had 6 ladies and 1 gentleman left, and wee had to check them all for wounds. To our relief, almost all of them were absolutely fine. Thing one and Thing two were in perfect order. Fucktwat was excellent. Marjoram was fine. Kung Pao was a brave rooster and had been protecting his flock, we are positive he saved the ones who were left alive. Tikka and Tandoori were another story, though. Tikka, our sweet easter egger/welsummer mix, had a broken wing and a broken foot, and was covered in wounds. Tandoori had a broken wing and a big wound on her back. We rushed Tikka in to our makeshift medical living room, prepared a quarantine bin for her, and cleaned her up. Derek 3D printed her a splint for her leg, I was convinced we could save her, even though Derek and I talked about how maybe we should put her down. But while he was cleaning her up, I did as much research into saving a chicken in her condition as I could, and in the end, we opted to try. She was our sweet Tikka and we loved her. Ultimately she did not make it. After three days of trying...diligently cleaning her wounds, changing her bandages, trying to feed her, getting her to drink, she was just not getting better, we knew she was suffering, and we did the kindest thing we could. Derek and I were in emotional tatters for a couple of days. I love my husband to the ends of the universe, but one thing he is not is emotional. In the almost eleven years we have been together, I have never seen him cry. Not once. Until we had to kindly euthanize our sweet Tikka girl. 

Tandoori has made a full recovery, though her wing will always be broken. We tried our best to set it, but she kept removing her split over night every night, so we were just like...fine. Have it your way. But she is happy and healthy and living outside with Kung Pao, Fucktwat, Marjoram, and Things one and two. 

What happened, you may ask? Thank you for inquiring, I would love to share. Derek and I misunderstood each other. When he asked me about the hole in the fencing, I thought he meant the one I had pointed out to him in the run fencing. What he ACTUALLY meant was the breeze window fencing. There was a loose bit that hadn't been bolted down. We assumed a racoon spotted the weakness and exploited it, getting in and killing our wonderful ladies. 

Now. 

We have lost a LOT of chickens. The mini homestead learning curve is steep as fucking fuck for us, but we've taken each lesson and we have never made the same mistake. With our first brood, we lost two in the same day to what we assumed was a hawk, and we were like, NOPE. Fuck that, time to fence them in. So we built the run in a fucking day. Had to keep our ladies safe. After a few months, we lost a couple more and couldn't fgure out how or why, until we saw that the foxes had gotten into the run from a hole they dug in a corner we couldn't see. Shored that hole up with more fencing. We had a racoon slip in to the coop once, looking for eggs. It only killed Ms. Frizzle, and we know it only killed her because she gave that racoon the fucking pecking of a lifetime. That racoon was scared, and it only killed her because she was protecting her ladies. Which she did, they all lived but her. Annd it went like this for awhile. Foxes would find a weakness in our coop, they'd get a free chicken dinner out of their keen awareness, and Derek and I would triage the situation and adjust. Sadly, when we were in Colorado, there was a fairly large weakness introduced to the run that the kids tried super hard to fix with our long distance assistance, but they could not, and we lost our entire flock over the course of three days. 

I missed my chickns. I love having chickens, they are so swet and affectionate and they have such vibrant little personalities. So Derek and I talked about it: should we get more chickens? Neither of us wanted a repeat of what happened while we were in Colorado. After I was given three chicks, bought three more, and then bought five more and was given two for free, Derek and I spent their six weeks indoors really fucking hunkering down on their run and coop. The misunderstanding sucked, we lost some of our favorite chickens because of it, but Derek fixed it, the coop is solid now, and our ladies and Kung Pao are happily outside, enjoying their lives (we hope). We have ben taking all of these losses and lessons to heart, and we know now how to have the safest run possible. 

But what the fuck, racoons?

We needed to figure out how they were getting in and out, if there was a den nearby that we could humanely catch and relocate. We had stopped feeding our racoons and skunks and possums ages ago, but that didn't mean they were gone from our yard. We live right up against forest. Derek and I were walking the yard when I noticed a lot of displaced rocks and I was like...that's weird. So we moved the climb gym we had against the house for the cats (that's a lie for "box spring", though it is there for the cats. We moved it there one day while we were cleaning things out of the basement and the cats were so smitten with climbing it and resting on it that we couldn't throw it away as planned, so we left it. And they fucking love that thing. We do not care, since we are he last house on the stree and nobody bu us sees that side of the house) and what did we find? A fucking massive hole. I knew it wasn't a groundhog, and I could tell it wasn't a fox den. But what the fuck could it be? Derek and I were perplexed. I just happened to go look at the coop tto see if there were signs of destruction or attempts of a B&E and I noticed a paw print on tthe side of the coop. A really fucking big one. And it clicked. 

"Derek..." I said, a little befuddled, "It's a fucking badger."

"No fucking way is it a nbadger" Derek said. 

Guess who was right. 

So it's been a badger murdering our chickens. Here we've been assuming the worst of the local racoon population when it's been a god damn badger. Now I am not the kind of person to kill animals for doing what is in their nature to do. I can't even kill bugs, they're just trying to live their best little buggy lives. We had a mouse problem in Hawai'i (everyone does), and when our landlord was like, "whoops, w forgot to exterminate before you moved in, we'll take care of it" I shouted a very passionate "LIKE FUCKING HELL YOU WILL!" and I managed the problem with a catch and releade program. Live traps, driving them over five miles away, releasing. I can't kill animals. I refuse. So when Derek and my dad said we needed to dispatch the badger post haste, I threw a fit. It isn't the badger's fault that we're stupid, the badger moved into a neighborhood with a local grocery store that served its favorite easy meal. That is an us problem, not the badger. Derek built a pulsing sound repellent machine which has worked a treat, we're damn near positive the badger is gone now. We have seen no activity for a couple of days, so we're going to rebury the den, as I now feel confident there are no babies in it. 

On August 1st, I told Derek I wanted to get more vanity chickens. I'm a girl who knows what she wants, and what she wants is vanity chickens. I have made a very good checklist of heat tolerant, cold hardy, beautiful egg laying chickens, so I picked ou my breeds and went back to Cackle to get 5 more chickens and they again gave me two free. We have seven little cheepies in the brooder box in the living room. Two Columbian Wyandottes (Zaphod and Beeblebrox), two Welsummers (Ford and Vogon), two Salmon Faverolles (Trillian and Marvin), and one barred rock (Slartibartfast). We stopped giving them funny chickeen dish names because we're farm superstitious. Our Adams batch is also very friendly. We love them, they love us, and I am a happy chicken lady. 

The chickens outside, even our sweetie Tandoori, have resumed being feral little cunts who want nothing to do with us. I joked morbidly with Derek tthat I was irritated about the badger taking all of our friendly chickens and leaving only the assholes who hate us. Couldn't even leave my Fritz. 

Anyway. I woke up this morning to chicken screams from our living room brooder to find our cat Claude in the pen, and one chicken missing. My favorite one. Zaphod. I was devestated that there was a tiny cheep cheep body somewhere in my house, dead, because of my dumb cats. Bu thankfully she was just out exploring the living room. The cats hadn't harmed a single feather on the chickens, they just wanted under the heat lamp. So everyone is accounted for, and all is well in our tiny world. 

How did I learn the worm? I move very fancily.

It's strange to have nothing to believe in when coincidences happen. July 15th 2002, one of my best friends died. I miss Jason a lot, even after 22 years losing a friend is a wound that never quite heals. The times I go between thinking of him and subsequently feeling sad are fairly long now, sometimes I only think about him once or twice a year, but it always hurts just as much when he does pop up in my thoughts. 

His deathaversary was a week and a day ago, so it's kinda funny that he popped ino the conversation today. And now it means I have to talk about what a fucking honest bitch Jason could be.

So when I was 13, I met my best friend Amber. She was sitting on the bus we took together, in the back, all by herself, and I don't know what came over me, but I sat down next to her and said, "hey, I'm Drea. I'm going to come home with you today and we're going to be best friends" and then we were. Simple as that. I couldn't tell you what came over me to do that, I  had never done anything so bold in my life, but I did, and almost thirty years later, she is still my best friend. 

I have been super duper frank about the fact that there are a thousand things that make me really awesome, and a solid person to be into romantically, but that none of those things are my looks. I don't know if I'm ugly per se, but I am not beautiful. Never have been, never will be, and at 40 I am just fine with that. I maintain that people fall for me not because I'm sexy or pretty, but because I'm basic looking ENOUGH and can trick an angle sometimes that people agree to go out with me once and then they find out that I'm kind of cool to be around. My strengths are knowing who I am and what my interests are, and being passionate about them. I leaarned at a very young age that I will never be a person that is so beautiful tha people grovel at their feet for just a moment of time to bask in their glory, and Amber is the person who taught me that, though the lesson was not intentional on her part (to my knowledge. Not to insinuae anything about Amber's character here, I'm jut saying sometimes we cut people down with mild intention because kids are fucking awful. Do I think that's the case? No. But I am also smart enough to know you need to leave room for those possibilities, however sure you are they don't exist).

I asked Amber to pick her two favorite photos of herself for this blog, and these are the two she picked. I have a lot of photos that I can think of when I'm like, "hey, what photo shows JUSt how pretty Amber is?" except they're all on my phone that is currently fucking broken, so I can't grab them. What I CAN do is get photos from my wedding. 

That's a great photo of Amber. And of course, one of us together, totally wastey faced and eating appetizers at my wedding:

RADIANT. 

Amber and I grew up together in theory, but in practice, I grew up in Amber's shadow. Girls like me who aren't surface level pretty but are kind of smart and interesting do not become viable sex interests until their twenies (but I did learn, during my horny teen years, that being a straight up unabashed ho turns the tides on that, so I cashed in on ho behavior and never looked back. It's why my sex partner count is damn near the triple digits, if not there already. I stopped keeping fervent track around the 80s, and I for sure did not stop working my way through all the bodies I could with aplomb when I stopped counting), but everybody wants to fuck girls like Amber. When I say like, I do not mean in her attitude or any way she presented herself, I just mean girls like Amber who are outwardly beautiful. Amber was very flirty, too, so when people paid Amber's beauty attention, she leaned in. Love that for her, no notes. But it is definitly part of how I understood that I really wasn't ever going to offer much on the aesthetics side, so I needed to develop a personaliy and FAST. But even that didn't help if I was around Amber. 

We would go out somewhere, and everybody knew Amber. She knew everybody. Everybody flirted with Amber and barely paid any attention to me, her dutiful little DUFF. It isn't like Amber did anything to perpetuate this behavior, she would introduce me to people and try and include me, but after a few minutes of conversation with whoever we were with, I faded into background obscurity until it was time to leave. And you fall into a groove with that. At school, when you're out, you just kind of let it happen. It's going to, anyway, why not take an active part in not being a meaningful part of the scenery? 

At school, Amber and I didn't really run in the same circles. We were tight as fuck, but with our own lives outside of each other. In my school circle, I was always with Kristen, Jason, Christina, Kirk, Laura, Jackie, Brewster, and KC. Jason, Christina, and Kirk were a year ahead of the rest of us, but that didn't stop Jason and I from being super close. Christina was his bestie, but I was her understudy. Jason and I shared a love of musical theater and outrgeous theatrics, we were the perfect little pair. We walked around school singing duets from various musicals (Little Shop was our favorite), we were absolute fuckin' AMT/theater geeks. Jason was my confidant. I told him everything, and as much as I hate stereotyping people, Jason absolutely WAS the kind of gay that was just...absurdly blunt, bordering gleefully cruel. I think he would be referred to as "sassy" if we were describing Jason in the ways that society allows some people to be total dicks and we wash over it because reasons. In reality, Jason was just...kind of...a bitch. 

There was this guy I liked...I can't even recall his name anymore, it has been decades since it mattered...but he waanted nothing to do with me, he liked Amber. And who wouldn't, right? I was used to it by the time I was complaining about it to Jason in the back of Brewster's car (his old ass station wagon hat we called The Jizz Wagon. I was never given an explanation as to why), but a girl can still complain, can't she? This is, after all, what we have different circles of friends for: so we can complain about our other friends wih reckless abandon witthout fear of them caching wind. And Jason may have been a bitch but what he wasn't was a gossip. I knew my complaining was in a safe space in a car surrounded by my friends who were also all uggos (except KC. I had a huge crush on KC) that never got to feel like they were the good looking friend. I told Jason, "I am so sick of being the ugly friend". Jason said, "it's just that you and Amber are different kinds of pretty". This was what I wanted to hear! Because the other thing we value in our friends is blind loyalty and lies. I asked Jason what kinds of pretty we are, in the hopes that I would actually come away from my venting feeling much better about myself. Jason thought about it for a minute, and then he said, "Well, Amber is the kind of pretty that's rare. She's an exotic kind of pretty" and everybody in the car verbalized their agreement that Amber was, in fact, a tremendous beauty. 

We can discuss how icky it is to exoticize racialized people another time, though to make it clear, it is VERY icky. 

After a few minutes of everyone in the car chorusing Jason's sentiments, I was finally able to ask Jason to dazzle me with the kind of pretty I was. Jason thought about it for a few seconds and said, "You're cunty". And everybody in the car laughed. Jason laughed. I didn't. I asked him again, "seriously, what kind of pretty am I?" and he said, "you're not! You're cunty." And everybody kept laughing and then they all agreed. I stayed pretty quiet the rest of the car ride, and the rest of the night. I stayed at Kristen's that night and didn't speak much. I am not trying to make myself a victim here, but I was fairly used to this group of friends teasing me mercilessly. I was struggling witth an eating disorder in high school. I was terrified to eat anything with fat in it. They all thought it was funny to make a stick of cheesecake that looked like butter and eat it in front of me. I thought it was mean. They made fun of my mom, and while she may be a bitch, they shouldn't have made fun of her weight. They were just mean kids, and I didn't realize it until I was older. 

I never forgot Jason, and my entire friend group in the car, telling me I wasn't any kind of pretty at all, I was just cunty. I came to terms with it ages ago, my looks aren't for everyone and that's fine. But I've had a mixed relationship with that word ever since. I ended on embracing it, and a few years later the word "cunty" is solidly in the zeigeist, and isn't even a pejorative. It's a GOOD thing. 

A few years ago I even bought a beanie that says CUNTY on it:

though mine says CUNTY in yellow. 

The other day, Amber and I were chatting about something and she laughed over me saying something neded more punch, flavor wise, and thinking to herself that I needed to make it cunty. And I was like, yeah, I mean, funny, but here's the story of why Jason called me cunty, and it's far from funny to me. I od her the story, which she said she never knew. Which...I know I've told her that story before. 

Anyway. That's how my friend Jason made me double down on my insecurities as a friend to someone pretty. Love that for me!