Texas – …on the B.L.

Houston, In My Own Words, Lifestyle, On the Town

Musings in a Storm; Hurricane Beryl

July 15, 2024July 15, 2024 RaeAnna

One Week Later…

On Sunday, July 7, 2024, I started taking pictures as the bands of Hurricane Beryl started to sweep over Houston. Alone in my house, I went to bed wondering what condition my world would be in when I woke. The power went out while I was on the phone with my fiancée (who lives in Australia) at seven in the morning on Monday, July 8, 2024. She went to bed for the night, and my weather watch began. Two hours later, I lost cell reception and internet. As an avid read, writer, picture taker with literally nothing to do, I decided to document the storm. I’ve been through my fair share of hurricanes, storms, tornados, and derechos at this point in my life. But, for the first time, I was bored during it.

I spent Sunday night and Monday taking pictures. The following pieces I wrote over three days in a notebook; then transcribed on my tablet in a note that I, later, turned into a .doc, which is now my first post in months. Each piece stands alone; though there are likely themes to be found. Some bring levity, and some are quite dark. They’re all very much me. The photos separate piece from piece. So, enjoy.

Open front door of Pearl Bar onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin. — Pearl Bar’s front door opens onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin.

Laying, clothed in very little, with the windows open: I’m hot. The kind of hot that feels like it’ll never get better. The kind of hot that makes air heavy in the lungs. If this isn’t nostalgic, it would be misery.
Laying on a sheet-covered couch—because cotton is cooler than brushed velvet—my underwear and bra stick to me. I’m glistening with sweat. I’ve read three-quarters of one of the best novels I’ve ever consumed. I realize: I’d be working if it weren’t for Hurricane Beryl shutting down the fourth largest city in the United States. A category one. No internet. No power. No communication with the outside world. It took a natural disaster for me to have my first real day off since the day after I put my dog to sleep… three months ago. There’s literally nothing to be done but pick up sticks and read. And I’m not about to go pick up sticks.
Laying on the couch, the only breeze I can feel is the hot breath from the dogs who love me so much they can’t find another spot to lay except my lap in all 3,000 square feet of this damn house. My day was spent reading and writing, the old-fashioned way. I love days like these. Ones where I lay by an open window, reading, drinking tea, and listening to nature. Today, doing just that, Instead of the birds, beach, breeze, city, leaves, I’d normally find lulling, I’m currently being serenaded by my much too nice neighbors’ generator. I hate them. But they’re too nice to hate, even in this heat.

A friend walking her dog as the storm started to roll in Sunday, July 7, 2024.

I have so many unanswered questions. | Does my mother believe in heaven? | What is the worst lie I’ve ever told? | Why do fascia confuse scientists so much? | Does Beau resent me for rescuing Tessa and the Puppies? | Why didn’t he protect me? | What will I regret when I lay dying? | Will she still think I’m beautiful in 50 years when she walks into our room after brushing her teeth to find me reading on the same side of the bed I’ve slept in for the majority of our lives? | Why did that question make me cry? | How did performing on stage go from being my whole life to a place I haven’t been in a decade? | Does he know he’s the villain in my story? | Why do I like Peach Rings but peaches not so much? | Do my dogs know how much I love them? | There are happy-sad people and sad-happy people and sad-sad people, but are there happy-happy people? | What’s even the point? | Why do I think I’m interesting enough to be a writer? | Can she remember the smell of the space between my shoulder blades the way I remember her? | When we leave the house, do our pets think we’re going for pupcups and dog walks and pet stores and beach adventures because that’s all they do with us? | Do they feel abandoned? | Am I capable of writing a book? | When does it get better?

As I drive through my neighborhood, there is a ton of damage. Trees felled. Roofs in streets. Families raking yards. Neighbors calling on each other. Hands being lended. Bayous overflowing.

The general post-natural disaster mahem and comradery.

Beau’s head hangs out the passenger window. Soaking up the breeze as much as the sun. She’s always loved a car ride. I drive slowly as much out of safety as curiosity.

As we slowly creep down the street, the decimation of homes, trees, and fences allows us a public viewing into private moments. On the main road, a backyard fence lays half across the sidewalk, half across the street. A multi-generational Asian family sits around a table on their back patio. Mom, dad, and grandma stare with a mixture of defeat and exhaustion. Martini in every hand. All the while, their ten[ish?] year-old son flits around the backyard with the joy of a kid in a world devoid of technology.

Using the dictionaries I loved so much in college to look up the gender of a noun. #old #nerd

Sometimes, I feel like Pyoter, my robot vacuum—named because a) I like men who clean b) I can yell at a man when it fucks up c) I speak Russian d) it just felt right—who is currently sat, wheels run-up a dog toy, in the corner where the hearth meets the wall.

Pyotr does a great job. A real go-getter. He’s aged, but his battery isn’t suffering. With the right care, he does as well as he ever did. His years show in the collection of dust and scuffs. He’s reliable and beloved. But he’s stuck. He’s not out of battery. He’s not full either. Nor is he empty. He’s kind of in the middle phase of vaccing the floors: where enough progress has been made, it seems like things could be done. Nowhere near perfect, but definitely above the expectation people have when I tell them, “I have five dogs.” Pyotr has the capability to do a great job, not just the average state my floors exist in now.

But he’s stuck.

I’m sitting on the couch engrossed in a book about a rich, lesbian writer who’s suffering from severe depression, childhood trauma, depersonalization, derealization, some delusions, and can’t finish her novel—that’s actually a memoir—which has put her in a trust funded [see what I did there] psychiatrists’ office not to feel and do better but to write again. Same. But I’m too poor for a psychiatrist to help me finish my damn book. Also the protagonist(antagonist?) is younger and further in her book than me. Fuck her. Now, I’m realizing, I am genuinely jealous of a genuinely ill and equally fictional woman. Then, again, I’m also (mostly undiagnosed) mentally ill. I mentioned I’m too poor for a psychiatrist? yes. This tracks.

Anyway.

I promise these two are related as to why, sometimes, I feel like Pyotr.

He’s stuck.

I’m stuck.

He needs me to get up, move him, push the button so he can be unstoppable. The problem therein lies: I won’t get up.

My brain is home to: CPTSD, childhood trauma, rape, violence, audhd, stripping, and more. At 33, like my floors, I’m doing better than you’d assume. To the outside world, I’m doing great. But I have so much energy. My mind is only getting more interesting. I know there’s potential. Somewhere. What’s been done is good enough; it really is.

It’s not good enough for me.

I’m wheels up on my own metaphorical dog toy. Therefore, I have no—completely devoid of metaphor here—no ability to stand up and press Pyotr’s button so he can go do great things for my mental health through dog glitter confiscation.

Which is a symptom of my own being stuck.

I need a me to come in and unstick me, so I can unstick Pyotr. So, he can finish the floors. So, I can finish my bestselling book. So, I can afford my wife’s dream job of being a rockstar. Then, I’ll be unstoppable. And maybe, but probably not, have a little more money. (I plan on my wife’s first tour eating up the $37 advance I get from that “bestseller.”)

But, I’m going to go back to reading.

I know I dated men for so, so, so many reasons. It’s something I’ve written about loads. Thought about far more. Why did I spend a whole lot of years dating a gender I have literally zero attraction to? There’s a bit to it I hate and don’t admit to often. But it’s also true and part of it.

Dating men is inherently traumatic. (For all women, yes. They are our natural predators. I’d choose the bear, but no one is asking me.) But for me. As a gay woman with years of sexual Trauma with a capital t. Sex, every single consensual time, was traumatic. Some more. Some less. I was walking a tightrope above a flowing lava river of memories I am deeply afraid of and equally curious about. I have an entire lived-life that I don’t really remember so well. It’s there. But not. I know I can. But do I want to?

With the right circumstances, those memories come back. Do I want them? Nope. Do I need them? Healing is a long, painful journey. I quickly realized… The easiest way to remember the memories living in my body and not so much my mind was sex with men. With the force of a freight train going down a hill with no brakes or conductor, every new rememberance would chug right over my mental health.

To be clear, this was all done consensually and unconsciously. It took me a long time to figure out what I was doing. Eventually, sex with men didn’t bring back memories. I think I’d collected all the Trauma I could the old fashioned way.

I took all the puzzle pieces and put them together. My puzzle was definitely found at a rummage sale because pieces are missing. I have enough of them to have a really clear understanding of who I am and where I come from. Then I took the time to heal. Like really heal. I’m not healed. Clearly. But I’m better.

Then I came out. Not because I hadn’t known I was gay before. But I needed to reTraumatize myself over and over and over again to uncover the hardest truths I needed to know so I could get to a place where I wasn’t so actively trying to die.

Too many years into an already full life. I’m out, I’m proud, I’m a functional calamity. At 33, I’m really fucking happily engaged to the most incredible woman. And I think… deep down, I might actively want to live.

The anxious ones were kept in their safe spaces.

With generators and chainsaws and bugs and children and dogs and sirens and storms, the world has never seemed louder. More intrusive. More in my space.

So, I put in earplugs to drown out the noise. I try to find sleep laying on the couch with all the windows open in a breezeless night in July. There’s still a ringing. A haunting that won’t go away. It’s louder in my brain than any of the aforementioned noises could ever be loud in real life.

I wish this were just tinnitus. But no.

Not new, but particularly jarring tonight. As a little girl, I used to think of it as an alarm sounding. That voice my mom told me about. It told me when I was doing something wrong. When I was being bad. It didn’t take me long to learn: that alarm never relented.

So, it didn’t take long to know: I was just bad. Most of the time, I still believe it. That I deserved it all. Every malintent, violence, shame.

But some days, more than there used to be, I think: maybe it’s all the alarms I didn’t listen to, warning me of all the people I believed.

Sometimes, it hurts being alone in my own head.

So, I take the earplugs out. Letting the sound of crickets and generators drown out the alarms I didn’t know how to listen to.

A lot of sniffing and following me around the house.

Stuck in a house with no electricity, no air conditioning, no reception, no internet, and no help at the height of southern Texas summer is a lot like camping. Except terrible.

If I tell you it was a first. I’m probably lying to you.

When I think about the unedited version of my whole life. The one common thread has been lying. Changing the narrative of my history. Sometimes, as it’s happening.

I tell firsts as if they’re not really seconds or thirds of fiftieths because they are more palatable. Cleaner. Easy.

Because, the thing is, the first time… well, that’s the first time I’ll write about.

But

To friends who know me, there’s the first time I talk about like it was a passing thing because looking at the threads that wove my Trauma, it hardly even feels like it matters.

Then

There’s the first time that felt like the first time. Only three people have seen that pain.

However

There’s the first time that was the real first time. I’ve never spoken it out loud. To even think of it pulls all the air that ever was from my lungs. Even writing—admitting to it here—scares me so much. I want to run. I want to hide. There is pain I so instinctively don’t want to be true that if I never speak it, never share it, maybe it’s not. But lately, in traffic, on walks, alone, in the moments where my mind wanders… I keep being led there. I’ve had to stop writing three times so my eyes could see the spelling errors I’ll edit out through tears sometime between me writing and you reading this. If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t edit this one out. This is hard. This is brave. This feels like dying.

Telling firsts which weren’t actually firsts, I’m lying to you. I’m not lying to myself. I was there. I know the truth. I always have. I just wish I didn’t. So I tell the firsts I’m comfortable with. Because I’m better. But I’m not fucking healed.

My love for you is a very well tended garden.

It’s an allegory I like because I like gardens. Not a perfect one since I don’t like gardening. In this figurative garden, I have no problems being a figurative gardener. Although, my darling dearest, the literal garden is your literal responsibility.

When a garden is planted, watered, tended, weeded, watered, tended, weeded, planted, so on and so forth, it will grow and thrive. New things will come. Some things will wither. Sometimes, it doesn’t *seem* to be doing so well because of winter or drought or too much rain or not enough sun, but a very well tended garden always survives, coming back stronger and more beautiful each time because the soil keeps getting richer. It is always growing and changing because it was never not well tended.

My love for you is that. A bit simplistic, but you get the idea.

Ludicrous! Not the rapper. The idea!!!!

The idea! at one point in time… a very, much too long point in time in my life, I thought it was important to carry a small suitcase on my shoulder everywhere I went.

They’re known as purses.

Highly helpful for the ladyfolk in a world where the ladyfolk are legally not allowed functional pockets [if pockets at all—depending on your state and county legislation]. Not really, but that’s how it feels shopping.

Anyway. I carried a large purse because I deemed it necessary to carry every single item anyone could need in events ranging from a wedding to a natural disaster. True fact. The pouch-thing I carried inside my purse was so well stocked with all sorts of odds and ends, it really did come in handy at both weddings (two friends) and a natural disaster (hurricane Florence). It was hefty! Lifting the damn thing, which sits utterly-and-quite-suddenly-forsaken, dusty, and on the top shelf in my entryway, put down never to be picked up again until… now, when it feels like something between training for an Iron Man and giving up completely.

I had purses—yes plural—big enough to carry the well-stocked pouch-thing, wallet, phone, a tiny tripod, book, pen, tablet, all my friends’ things, and a brush every single time I left the house.

It is baffling to me.

I don’t even brush my hair anymore.

I don’t like my body.

I don’t think I see what other people see.

All I see is endurance. Not the long-distance running kind. The servived kind.

I look at my body and see every flaw. Every dimple. Every stretch mark. Every varicose vein. Every lump. Every wrinkle. Every sag. Every scar. I’m vain. Sure. But…

I see pain. I see a body I didn’t think belonged to me, had control over, a right to. I see a body that I think of as not me. What happens and happened to this body… that’s not me. It’s just a body. Because if they did that to my body and I am my body, they did that to me. And they knew me. And they still did it. Then looked me in the eye and called it love.

I don’t want to look at my body and see that.

I don’t.

But, I take beautiful pictures of my body in beautiful places. They call the place beautiful. They call the body beautiful. But I just want to keep a record. I want proof. I want to know that I was there. I did it. This body did enough to get to those places.

But also…

I hope one day I look back on all the pictures I’ve taken in beautiful clothes in beautiful places with beautiful people and think, maybe, ‘I was beautiful once.’ I guess, that’s how I’ve always—well, not always—known to not give up yet. That’s hope, an emotion I’m rarely accused of. I haven’t lost it. So, maybe, one day, I will look back at all the art I made with eyes that somehow found enough self-love (it hurt me far more to write than for you to read) to think: ‘As much as I hated it every singe time, I deserved to be called beautiful.’

But I guess that’s healing from being treated like an ugly thing for so very long.

Life is an exhausting to do list.

11..., Lifestyle

11… Ways I Try to Show Up for My People

May 1, 2023April 30, 2023 RaeAnna

People who don’t know me very well have the impression that I’m a genuinely optimistic human with an ability to always find the silver lining. Even people who do know me quite well think of me as such. I’ve recently been in touch with a friend who, at one point in time, knew me better than almost anyone, and he described me as always able to find the silver lining. It got me thinking in the way things that take me off guard usually do.

Why do so many people see me as a silver lining, glass half full, optimistic, ray of sunshine human, when the reality is so starkly different? Only my closest friends realize the depth of my nihilism. I am such a dark and twisty human. I only see worst case scenario.

A woman in a vest sitting on the ledge of a scenic overlook in the Appalachia mountains in Tennessee. — There is something very peaceful about being in nature. It makes my loneliness feel so much less.

As so much in my life, there is the public and the private. The me the world experiences versus the me that only I know and my best friends get glimpses of. To the world and in interactions with other humans, I wouldn’t call myself optimistic but I present reality. “That sucks, but it’s not forever.” is something I say often. Often people don’t need optimism because that can be toxic. People just want and need their feelings and thoughts to be heard and validated. I’m really good at that. I’m also just really good at showing up in the dark times. For others, I can see the potential, light, and possibility lying ahead of them. Within and for myself, I live in a space of nihilistic gloom.

Why am I so good at appearing like a happy, stable person?

Boiling it all the way down… I don’t ever want anyone to feel the depth of my loneliness. So I learned how to say all the right things at exactly the right time because no one has ever done that for me. People are not the same. Everyone has specific needs and desires and boundaries. Some people need optimism. Some people need silence. Some people need anger. Some people need hope. Some people need sadness. Some people need reality. I have the ability to know the person and what they want and need to hear. Most people treat people the way they want to be treated. I read people and treat them the way they crave to be treated. People don’t see me, and they definitely do not see me to my core.

There is something so intrinsically optimistic about being seen by someone else. It gets so much easier to show up for people when I can see what they need when they need it. I fail all the time at showing up for my people. I do my best and sometimes that’s not good enough. But I keep trying to show up. It’s hard to feel alone when someone in the world sees you. So people see me as optimistic because I give them what they need when they need it, and it’s really hard to think of that person as anything other than a rainbow person.

I’ve only touched on that feeling twice, but it just made me more lonely. They almost saw me, but couldn’t quite push far enough to really see me. Or probably more realistic, they pushed as far as they cared to go. And it’s a little bit devastating to feel almost seen. The other part of me thinks, “Thank God. They would’ve left so much faster if they truly saw me.”

Ultimately, I have always shown up for other people in every way no one has shown up for me and in every way I cannot show up for myself.

“I love you.” I tell my people I love them. All the time. Every time I see them. Except for the people who are weird about hearing it, so I only tell them on special occasions. Sometimes, I just randomly text my people I love them.
My calendar is always up to date. This seems weird. I’m very good with dates in general, so this, by and large, is unnecessary because I will probably remember. But, just in case I don’t, I put everything on my calendar. Sad days in friends’ lives along with anniversaries and birthdays and really anything in between. It all goes on my calendar, so that every year, I can reach out or plan something depending on the event or memory. I don’t want to forget the important things in friends’ lives.
Giving flowers. I have always been someone to show up with flowers for all kinds of events. Flowers make things better, and they at least bring a breath of fresh air to a space, which helps on bad days and good days. This has been made even easier with a florist best friend and my role in her company. I get to give my people much better flowers now.
Making a thing out of birthdays. I try to go big for birthdays. I’ve kinda sucked at it the last couple years. Birthdays are an annual reminder of who gives a shit. Granted life happens and there’s a grace period, but those who care show up in one way or another. I try to do just that.
If I’m left alone in a friend’s house, I will probably leave a whole bunch of notes around the place for them to find randomly. The notes may range from funny to serious to sweet to everything in between.
Showing up without an invitation. I do not do this to everyone because that’s a lot. For my really close people, if I know things are tough, I will pop by unannounced with the things I know will make them feel better. It’s hard to not accept love and help if it’s smiling at you on your doorstep with your favorite things.
I love being behind the camera, so I take pictures all the time. I love taking candid and posed pictures of my people. From random days to actual photoshoots, I want to capture my people as they live their lives. I don’t want them to look back and wish they had more pictures of themselves, so I do.
Let me feed you. Cooking and baking is one of my biggest love languages. I love feeding people their favorite foods. Food feeds our bodies so we can keep going. Good food feeds the soul so we can keep going in the most fundamentally important way.
When traveling, I like to send my people postcards. Who doesn’t feel a little special getting anything in the mail that’s not a bill? Postcards are fun. They’re also getting harder and harder to find as less and less people send them. But I still search them out and send them anyway.
Random compliments. Most of my people are not words of affirmation people, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need or deserve to hear just how much they mean to me.
I see people’s hearts and souls. Call it trauma. Call it PTSD. Call it being a stripper. Call it autism. Whatever the reason, I tend to read people who they are and not just their public selves. It can be the most raw and intimidating feeling having someone outside of yourself know you, but I tend to see people. And apparently that’s a gift to them. Or a curse. I guess, it just depends.

Life is hard enough as it is. We don’t need to make it any harder. So I hope your people show up for you in all the ways you need them to. If they don’t, go find new people. They might be difficult to find, but they are out there. Go find them. Let them show up for you in all the ways you show up for them. You deserve an army of people who love you for all that you have to offer, whether you’re a bubbly, rainbow human or dark and twisty. Don’t settle for anything less.

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

11..., Lifestyle

11… Unusual Traditions I Made Up

April 24, 2023April 24, 2023 RaeAnna

Tradition might be one of my favorite things. I love traditions. They make my world go round. I have traditions for everything. And it takes very little for me to create a new tradition. Seriously, I could like doing something one time, and it is immediately a tradition…. That I will uphold for the rest of my life. The more I write this, the more I’m thinking this is solely an autistic habit creation thing… But I’m gonna stick with calling this… tradition! And let everyone believe it’s just a cute quirk of mine.

It’s a cathedral. This caption will make sense shortly.

Please don’t get “tradition” mixed up with “traditional.” If I call something “traditional,” that is very much a bad thing. If I’m calling something traditional, I’m being polite in front of people I don’t trust. Whatever it is is likely rooted in heteronormativity, the patriarchy, capitalism, or something generally shitty.

Traditions, though, are lovely and often little things that bring me joy. I have so many. So, so many. I’m only going to share eleven that are all over the place in importance. But I’m not going to tell you which ones are the important ones and which are not. Also some have been practiced for decades and others a year. Just know, if I ever rope you into a tradition, you’re stuck with it for life. So take part wisely.

Every time Dylan drives me to the airport, we get Velvet Taco. Every time he picks me up from the airport late at night, we get Waffle House. This tradition does not go both ways. It’s only when I’m the one flying.
Marshmallows with a little bit of hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls with Christmas music while opening presents on Christmas morning.
Dumplings whenever I’m sick or extra-spicy sad.
Getting a Starbucks I got to a new state/place. There are limits and terms to this agreement, but there is a state cup for everywhere I’ve been.
Matching outfits on trips. I rarely travel with people, but when I do, there are coordinating outfits and a lot of photos. Alex has been on the receiving end of this tradition more than anyone. Although, Amanda is a fast second.
Lighting a candle in every cathedral I go into. I’m not religious.
Going for a swing on a swing set late at night when I’m sad and can’t sleep. Extra awesome when it’s a cold winter night and the stars are clear.
Photoshoots for absolutely no particular reason other than… I can.
Birthday tattoos.
Mommy-Doggy ice cream cones every time we go to the vet.
Throwing trash in the backseat of my car and yelling “ROADTRIP!” We do not need to be on a roadtrip. We will pick up immediately.

In My Own Words, Lifestyle, So Gay

Gay A Synonym For Happy, So Gay Pride 2022

May 31, 2022May 31, 2022 RaeAnna

The very first Pride I ever went to was ten years ago in London, albeit accidentally. I haven’t been to one since. I have celebrated every single Pride month in some way for twelve years—a year before I came out as pansexual.

I’ve never really been to Pride. As an extreme introvert with zero gay friends in Houston, I haven’t had anyone make me go or go with me. As soon as my life included people, straight but supportive people, who would happily accompany me to Pride, the pandemic hit, and Pride was canceled for two years; though, I put on my own Pride Parade, dressing up my six dogs in 2020.

The pandemic put stress on the seams of my life that I had been so desperately mending as they tore until I couldn’t do it anymore. I let every seam pop, and my life is just a jumble of fabric and thread at this point. Eventually, I’ll figure out how to sew it all back together, but I’m in the process of figuring out how I want the pieces to fit together because what was didn’t work.

Over the last two years, I have become more and more outspoken about being gay. I’ve never hidden this part of myself since coming out eleven years ago, but being in straight passing relationships made it a bit more complicated. And it is exhausting arguing with people over my own identity. Two years ago, I decided to stop letting exhaustion deter me from calling people on their heteronormativity. A conversation worth having for myself but also for every other queer person so maybe one day it no longer needs to be had. Six months ago, I came out as lesbian.

Gay, queer, lesbian. They’re all identities I happily wear.

Living my best gay life surrounded by a bunch of circles.

Sometimes I feel like my life has been nothing but doing hard things. Thirty-one years of just getting by, biding my time until the next tragedy creeps in. In my early twenties, I chose to walk away from a cushy corporate life to pursue a career in doing the hard things. I spend my time learning and writing about this life and this world of inequity, violence, and struggle. As someone who has chosen to always have the hard conversations, to stand up for what I believe is right, to never stay quiet, to not accept what is as what can be, my career and beliefs, though rooted in kindness, has alienated everyone in my life who do not believe in working to create a better world. We do not have to hold the same opinions or beliefs, but my people cannot actively cultivate ignorance, hate, violence, or worse ambivalence. So, I am well acquainted with watching people walk away.

My life has been a series of doing hard things, but coming out was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.

As someone whose life revolves around gender and racial equity and human sexuality, as a gay someone, I am well acquainted with the fears my community has when they come out, when we live our lives in the open. I know the privilege I have as a straight passing woman. A 5’10” woman who can hold her own in a fight against a man. A white woman. An American woman. A cis woman. A woman with an education and the words to tell my story and defend my actions and understand the consequences of my choices. I choose to come out at every opportunity. I chose to get very gay tattoos in very visible places. I choose to put rainbows on everything. I choose to call myself gay and lesbian and queer. I choose to be loud and proud because so many people never had the chance. So many live in fear because they are who they are.

My community has fought for the rights we have. We have died to be where we are today. Yet three days ago, I listened to a fifteen year old girl talk about her parents refusing to acknowledge her sexuality because she’s not straight, maybe bi, maybe lesbian. The fact a fifteen year old feels comfortable enough to call herself gay is such an amazing win, but the fight is not over. Especially if we look at what is playing out in the highest court of this nation and the repercussions of the decision and overturning of Roe v. Wade will have for women and my community.

Blue and yellow are my favorite colors, so yes for this wall.

Pride is a celebration. It’s a celebration of who we are. It’s a celebration I hold in my heart and life every fucking day because Pride isn’t a month, it is my life. It is the lives lost to violence and ignorance; the lives lost to hopelessness; the lives lost to a lack of health care; the lives lost fighting for equity. Pride is a remembrance of every person who has come before so that we can wear rainbows and dance in the street. Pride is honoring the pain that has led to joy and love and laughter. Pride is hope that the struggles and fights we continue to face will be alleviated for the queer people of tomorrow.

So yeah, I’ve made gay a huge part of my personality in the last two years. Because I’m fucking proud. I’m proud of my community. I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of who I am, and it has taken me thirty-one years of doing the hard things so that I could have this one easy thing.

I am gay. I am lesbian. I am here. I am loud. I am proud. I will be at Pride in Houston whether that is with my people or by myself. If you need people, I’ll be your people. Because I’m proud of you too. We’re not perfect, but gay is a synonym for happy, so here’s to a Gay Fucking Pride and celebrating exactly who we are because we are exceptional.

Books, Reading Lists

Easy Fall Reading List

October 21, 2021October 21, 2021 RaeAnna

A Long Petal of the Sea by Isabel Allende
Worth a Read Yes || Length 336

Quick Review This really is a beautifully written work of fiction, depicting an often overlooked period of history as Americans. The Spanish Civil War raged on as two people are pushed together into a marriage and escape from Spain to Chile on a ship, chartered by Pablo Neruda. Highly suggest.
Memorable Quotes
“Her beauty intimidated him: he was used to women prematurely marked by poverty or war.”
“She was discovering it (the world) was nothing like the descriptions in books or photographs. It was much more complex and colorful, much less frightening.”

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Anywhere for You by Abbie Greaves
Worth a Read Eh || Length 368

Quick Review I really hated this book. It was written fine, but the whole plot. I don’t get the point. Like why? Mary stands in a tube station with a sign saying, “Come Home Jim” because her boyfriend disappeared on her seven YEARS ago. Everything goes to shit when a reporter befriends her and makes it go viral. The relationship was toxic and unhealthy… So it feels like it’s just perpetuating the idea that a good woman will, in the words of Tammy Wynette, Stand By [Her] Man even when he’s shit and doesn’t deserve it.
Memorable Quotes
“Comfort never encouraged anyone to spread their wings.”
“”When you meet the right person, you need to be with them, no matter what.””

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Bookish and the Beast by Ashley Poston
Worth a Read Eh || Length 288

Quick Review Not my usual read, but it’s a cute rom-com for teens about two nerdy kids falling in love in the midst of their own problems. If you can’t tell, books are at the heart of their love story. You can also guess the plot from the title. No surprises. At all.

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Everyone Is Beautiful by Katherine Center
Worth a Read Yes || Length 256

Quick Review I had low hopes for this, but it turned out to be a beautiful story about a wife and mother, yearning to reconnect with herself and passion again. It’s an earnest depiction of making life work on a limited income and even less sleep. Life, marriage, and motherhood is hard, but it’s even harder having to do them all at once. Center creates a compelling look into womanhood and marriage in the time that comes after the “happily ever after” or wedding because life doesn’t stop with a ring or an “I do.” This is a small book that really gets the messiness and stress of motherhood and marriage without being bitter or resentful.
Memorable Quotes
“I hate to say it, but I will. Children, despite their infinite charms, are an absolute assault on a marriage.”

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Gimme Everything You Got by Iva-Marie Palmer
Worth a Read Yes || Length 400

Quick Review I was pleasantly surprised by this one. I don’t usually read YA, but it was accidentally sent to me, and I thought why not? Set in 1979, a school gets their first girls soccer team and sexism ensues. The girls learn how to balance their budding love of sports with their desire to be feminine and find those two things are often at odds in society’s eyes. Setting the piece over 40 years ago, allows readers to draw parallels between the world of the past and today to see what has changed and all the ways it has not budged.
Memorable Quotes
“Then, this summer, I realized maybe the shorts meant something bigger. Like that I was a feminist. Not one who didn’t shave her armpits, but a sexy one.”
“Wasn’t the point of having a sibling that you had to endure your parents together?”

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Girl Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis
Worth a Read No || Length 240

Quick Review I understand Rachel Hollis and this book are beloved by so many people, but I just couldn’t get on board. I had a hard time getting past the God aspect, great, have your religion, but for so many people that’s not a driving force in our lives, but what got me the most about it was her constant need to reinforce the idea that she’s a “good Christian.” There are really great nuggets and words of wisdom in there, but there’s also a kind of toxic “pick yourself up” and “you’re unhappy because of you” and “EVERYTHING is in your control” attitude. As someone who is completely self-made, I get that. As a survivor of abuse, so much of my life is circumstance and dealing with the aftermath and consequences of other people’s actions. The themes and attitudes are just not relatable for me at all. It falls so flat.

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Little Deadly Secrets by Pamela Crane
Worth a Read No || Length 384

Quick Review For me, this is one of those not-much-of-a-mystery mystery; it’s very easy to guess. I really did not like any of the characters. I found so many issues with the parenting and rape. So much rape. Rape, rape, everywhere. As a rape survivor, I don’t mind rape, but this felt more like rape porn than rape for literary or even human experience reasons. There’s also a lot of toxic masculinity passing as acceptable. It was just written poorly and in poor taste. A hard pass for me.
Memorable Quotes
“Friends are the flowers you pick to beautify your life.”
“We’re trained from an early age to value beauty. What a handsome little boy, we say. Or What a pretty little princess. So we grow up believing that if we’re not beautiful enough, we won’t be loved. Then someone comes along and loves you anyway, and you make him God over you. Even when he is in fact the devil.”

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Little Wishes by Michelle Adams
Worth a Read Yes || Length 400

Quick Review This is a really sweet love story about two people reconnecting in their twilight years. It’s sweetly written to match the tone of the story. Adams writes in an overly flowery way to try and paint a picture of Cornwall, but it’s a bit over the top. She also does a whole bunch of equating love and fire, but I guess that’s what readers like. There’s a hint of mystery, but if you’ve done much reading, that and the ending are quite expected. Overall, this is one of those books you want to read on the beach or snuggled up in a porch chair.
Memorable Quotes
“Perhaps that was what love was, the thought to herself, when nothing that came before or after seemed to matter anymore, when the world could be on fire, but you didn’t fear the burn.”
“Losing a parent did that, made you question your existence for the first time in your life. Human morality paraded before you, utterly unavoidable, the world changed.”

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

Live A Little by Howard Jacobson
Worth a Read Eh || Length 288

Quick Review I really enjoyed the writing, but the story itself was lackluster for me. I can’t even remember the plot, except for the part where I couldn’t care less about the characters. The female characters in particular were… shallow. It’s an excellent example of why I don’t like reading female characters written by men. The narrative style is humorous and interesting.
Memorable Quotes
“I was more of a man than any of my men were and I don’t doubt I will prove to be more of a carer than my carers.”
“What they call dementia, she has decided, is nothing but a failure to maintain a comprehensive filing system. And what they call losing your mind is forgetting to use it.”

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

The Night Portrait by Laura Morelli
Worth a Read Yes || Length 496

Quick Review Waffling between an art conservationist in the midst of WWII and a young woman in a Milanese court of the fifteenth century, this historical novel traces the history of Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece, Girl with the Ermine. I get a bit tired of historical novels set during WWII, but I did enjoy this one. I love strong women at the heart of a well written narrative.
Memorable Quotes
“Like most inspired ideas, it comes to me in the middle of the night.”
“And Edith had to face the fact that she was part of the giant network that enabled these men to aggrandize themselves, at the expense of so many innocent lives.”
“Edith had a difficult time reconciling the man who, by day, was responsible for the devastation around them, and by night, doted on his children.”

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

The Red Daughter by John Burnham Schwartz
Worth a Read Eh || Length 288

Quick Review A historical novel focusing on Svetlana, Stalin’s daughter, and her life in America after fleeing the Soviet Union. Told from two perspectives, that of Svetlana and that of her lawyer, Peter Horvath. It’s a well told story, but largely forgettable. Getting nit picky, as a Russian speaker, when Svetlana is writing, it doesn’t feel like a Russian speaking. She also lacks emotional depth, when Peter does not. I would say that’s due to a man trying to write from a perspective he does not understand or identify with… a woman’s. Peter is the far more compelling character; even though his section of the novel is far smaller. In a lot of ways, this is a lovely story, but it also falls very short of being great.
Memorable Quotes
“Governments will always lie. It is the job of artists and intellectuals to tell the truth.”
“There is a kind of drunkenness one finds only in Russia. The Irish don’t know it, the French, the Greeks. An ecstasy of melancholy… A sadness that has no limits and is so very close to joy, but never reaches it.”

Buy on Amazon | Buy on Book Depository

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

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Blog + Dog

Cost of Being a Dog Mom to A Pack of Six

August 11, 2021August 11, 2021 RaeAnna

I love my dogs so, so, so much. All six of them. I have no favorite. They each have my whole heart because they are uniquely and perfectly themselves.

People, who are not me, tend to fall into two categories:

Oh my God. That’s too many. You need to find new homes for some of them.
Oh my God. You are living the dream.

To the people in the two categories, I say:

Fuck you. It’s a good thing it’s not your life.
I KNOW! IT’S THE BEST THING EVER.

Boys, Duke and Knight, relaxing before the vet comes in.

Life changed extravagantly after I adopted one dog. Life changed completely when I rescued fourteen and kept five. It wasn’t the plan, but I’m so happy with what is. Six dogs complicates life a bit. From travel to going out to having handy people over, there was some adjusting. Things run smoothly now, but there was a learning curve to knowing what works and what does not. They all bring their own personalities, preferences, and quirks to each and every day. We honor those but also maintain boundaries and rules to ensure the house, family, and pack are safe, happy, and healthy.

Today I want to talk about the adventure that is going to the vet. It used to be a simple and seamless experience. One dog. Once a year. With check ins if something was out of the norm. It was easy and as inexpensive as having a rescue dog can be.

Having six dogs… Going to the vet is an affair. When the puppies were puppies, we would load all thirteen in laundry baskets and head to the vet with Tess in tow. As they got older, we would pile them into the back seat, two at a time, until all thirteen were in. Then the same on our way into the vet’s office. Now that I have six permanent dogs instead of one, I have an entirely new process of spacing our vet trips out for two reasons:

They’re huge. I can’t imagine trying to wrangle 408 pounds of dog into the vet all at one time. It would be a nightmare. Also my car isn’t big enough. I have enough self respect and self worth to not attempt.
Money. Financially taking all the dogs to the vet at one time is extravagant.

This first year has been rough. I wouldn’t have it any other way [unless healthy dogs was an option, then I would have it that way], but it was expensive. A lot of the expense was expected, but there was a good amount that wasn’t. Tess was heartworm positive when I picked her up off the side of the road. Duke had to have dental surgery to fix his face and give him a good quality of life. Both expected expenses. Makeda ended up getting a very serious eye infection and had to have lots of tests to ensure she wouldn’t lose her eye. Good news, she’s totally fine. Duke ended up having repeated x-rays and MRIs because he has some skeletal issues. Upside, he will grow out of them, but it’s been both painful and frequent for the last ten months and will continue for eight more. Tessa had emergency surgery because she got a cut too close to her shnoot. Knight has SEVERE allergies, which did not present as allergies at first. Many tests later, it’s an easy but lifelong battle we both get to enjoy. Duke [that boy is chalk full of problems], is having mouth problems again, so back we go to the doggy oral surgeon. All of these were unexpected, but we made it work because they’re our babies. And what was I going to spend that money on anyways? Probably fancy restaurant food. I like my dogs more than fancy restaurant food. Worth it.

Knight protecting Duke from the mean, mean vet with the pokey stick of health and wellness.

I did the math. Just to cover costs of heartworm prevention, vaccines, and check ups, it costs almost $1600 a year in Houston, Texas for six dogs. In my house, yearly vet check ups are non-negotiable. I decided to spread out the check ups to two a month in the summer. Knight and Duke in June. Bear and Makeda in July. Tess and Beau in August. It makes it easier to wrangle at the vet and easier to wrangle my wallet.

Budgeting is super important when it comes to having six dogs. From food to supplements to saving for the inevitable yearly check ups to saving for the oopsies. I knew all of this when we decided to take on five more doggos. I have made budgets, plans, and adjustments in our life. I wouldn’t call the things I’ve given up “sacrifices;” they are adjustments. We adjusted. I gave up some trips and some fancy restaurants, but we have gained so, so much more by including them in our family and life. Even Beau loves having them around; I never thought I would say that.

I don’t want anyone to think this is me complaining. This is 100% me not complaining. BUT it is me being honest. Honest about the financial commitment of properly taking care of six dogs. Adopting is more than just bringing home a cute dog and feeding it and taking it potty. Like children and adults, they require training, medical check ups, vaccines, medication, and attention when things happen. Just like humans, dogs can and will get sick, have injuries, and more. Those take both time and money. So often, people think and talk about the time commitment that must be made when taking on a dog or two or six. We don’t talk about the monetary aspect of having a pack and the things that can and do come up.

Celebratory “it’s all over” puppaccinos for the very goodest boys.

I count myself lucky to take on the joys and challenges of raising six fur babies with my awesome co-parent. We share the responsibilities, financial, time, and physical, of raising and tending to them. There’s a give and take for both of us; a balance we have happily managed to find.

So if you’re contemplating adopting a dog or growing your pack and want to chat about what that means, I’m always here! I love talking about my babies and hearing from passionate dog parents.

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna