__________________________________
Rant
By Stephanie Kemp
Rant
By Stephanie Kemp
September 27, 2022
WARNING: Swear Words.
Motherfucker
Motherfucker
Motherfucker
I am in the mountains and wondering what the fuck I am doing in the mountains.
I wish I had written Sunday night when I arrived. I was so grateful that our cabin didn’t burn down in the fire (within a mile, mandatory evacuation, 1088 acres, firefighters are heroes) that I was sure this massive gratitude would last a lifetime. I have never been so happy to sweep up so much (or any) ash.
Yet here I am on Tuesday.
I haven’t written (at least junk journaled to get the shit out of my head) for months.
Motherfuckballs.
This is not all bad, as I have been writing some other interesting things instead (because?) of this.
But I don’t know how to do this. How can anyone survive this world of dings and texts and calls and emails and solicitors and AirPods and political correctness and rage and hate and opinion and editorial and news and “news” and war and climate change and fentanyl and inflation and Dobbs and the business of living and the business of making a living, while pretending that anything else can ever - possibly - happen outside of these things?
And this is only if you are lucky. (I am.)
But I am not succeeding, Motherfuckers. (This includes you, Stephanie. You better get at least some of your shit together after you stop typing).
On top of all of this…(and it is pretty close to the top):
I owe each sister and a few cousins plus some uncles and a stepmom and more friends than anyone deserves to have a thousand calls. They must wonder what the motherfuckballs has happened to the reliable me that used to show up for (mostly) everything and came home to see everyone every fucking summer for thirty fucking years.
Where is that person?
Who is that person?
Do I have to spell out to everyone that I want new rules?
And who is going to write these new rules?
Does it have to be me?
(On a related but probably sort of important note: Are my own rules the only ones that are no longer working? Did they only work because I didn’t have any?)
I have to ponder this before I blow anything up.
I have to ponder why/how I let it get to this point.
I have a vague memory of my therapist turned friend, Debra, suggesting (starting 25 years ago) that,“You might want to start thinking about establishing some boundaries, Stephanie. No-one can be in two places at one time, even mentally.” (Actually, I made up that last part, just now. But I like it!)
skldfjlsdjflksjdflsjflsjdfklsjkflsjdflsjdfkslfjsljfdsljf.
Maybe one of the boundaries could’ve been that your therapist shouldn’t become your friend, Stephanie?
(Right now I am going to pretend that Debra was complicit in this shift. Later I will take it back, because it’s a lie. Plus I might need to go back to her for some motherfucking therapy)
Sjflsjfklskjdlfjsklfjlsjfklsjflsjflsjfljsljskljslkfjlsjslkjsdfksjlkfd
My kid (the one I’m not with because I’m in the mountains) was sick and is better now but got her sister (the other kid I’m not with) sick. They are big picture fine and totally self sufficient teenagers so where is the muscle set that allows me to just tell them from a distance to take it easy and drink lots of water?
Oh! I know where it is. Nowhere! Just like all of my other muscle sets. Especially the ones that used to live in my arms.
Skdjflsjdflsjflskjfklsjfklsfjdkljfskldfjsklfjksljfslkjdfslkjf
My husband is holding down the fort at home (thank you love you) but preemptively telling me he’s sure he’ll wake up with this sickness tomorrow before adding that I should just enjoy myself up here because everything is under control.
Skjldfjslkdjljfdslkjfkldsjfklsjflsdjsldfjsklfjsldjfsldfjlsjdf
This.
Is.
Not.
Helpful.
And by Thisisnothelpful I mean both my husband’s words as they roll off the tongue and the fact that they are paired with the question, “Where would I find the absence verification form?” Now, I don’t want anyone (even me) to think that this question itself could throw me over the edge (how much bigger of an asshole would I be if I couldn’t even walk my husband through the school’s website - while I am in the mountains - to get it?), but then the school website was down. Again.
Again.
AGAIN!
Oh! But wait! You ARE an asshole, Stephanie! Don’t you know that this doesn’t matter at all because the entire system of education in (not only) America is hanging on by a thread so you shouldn’t piss on the people who are still doing the herculean work of showing up and trying to educate our children or at least provide a physical space for them to go to as (what’s left of) the world burns and melts and floods and trumps itself away?
The principal just left.
The senior counselor just retired.
The favorite teacher died.
The other favorite teacher had a stroke but is still there.
Ah.
There.
A door out of this hell.
The teacher that had a stroke but is still there just saved me. From myself right now, and possibly longer, if I can hold on to the meaning of what this (and this person) means.
He might even liked being referred to as a door out of hell. (He is fully intact, thank god.)
I remember once (in a better parenting moment) I said to my daughters:
“Yes. The world is a shit show at this moment. But we all have to take turns doing what we can in all the moments that we are able to because no one can do this kind of heavy lifting every day. Everyone needs to keep showing up.”
I am going to go walk and breathe in the air that is no longer smoky. At least this morning. (In better parenting moments I also tell my daughters to Stay in the Day.)
Because I am not actually an asshole.
I will check in on my family. The immediates immediately (this means several hours from now) and the family of origin and friends as I am able. (I am doing what I can to stay connected while overhauling the system. Debra would/will like this.)
And then I am going to take chocolate chip cookies to the firefighters, even though I am sure they can’t (legally) eat them anymore, because the world has become so motherfucking litigious.
I am going to make and deliver them anyway.
And then after my walk with arm weights (or now, because writing also makes me feel better and more optimistic), I will feel motivated to continue working on my stories. (This is my current day job because I don’t have another one. This is motherfucking scary but a rant for another day.)
My stories are collectively (and appropriately, at least in this moment) titled: I’m Swearing as Fast as I Can.
Maybe I will be so motivated after my walk (why didn’t I think of arm weights before?!) that I will use this as a test run for a Substack newsletter.
Maybe my voice is exactly what the motherfucking world needs.
Maybe I will consider this seriously.
Especially if it is my turn or day to show up…
ps/ironically: I burned the cookies. I will try again.
WARNING: Swear Words.
Motherfucker
Motherfucker
Motherfucker
I am in the mountains and wondering what the fuck I am doing in the mountains.
I wish I had written Sunday night when I arrived. I was so grateful that our cabin didn’t burn down in the fire (within a mile, mandatory evacuation, 1088 acres, firefighters are heroes) that I was sure this massive gratitude would last a lifetime. I have never been so happy to sweep up so much (or any) ash.
Yet here I am on Tuesday.
I haven’t written (at least junk journaled to get the shit out of my head) for months.
Motherfuckballs.
This is not all bad, as I have been writing some other interesting things instead (because?) of this.
But I don’t know how to do this. How can anyone survive this world of dings and texts and calls and emails and solicitors and AirPods and political correctness and rage and hate and opinion and editorial and news and “news” and war and climate change and fentanyl and inflation and Dobbs and the business of living and the business of making a living, while pretending that anything else can ever - possibly - happen outside of these things?
And this is only if you are lucky. (I am.)
But I am not succeeding, Motherfuckers. (This includes you, Stephanie. You better get at least some of your shit together after you stop typing).
On top of all of this…(and it is pretty close to the top):
I owe each sister and a few cousins plus some uncles and a stepmom and more friends than anyone deserves to have a thousand calls. They must wonder what the motherfuckballs has happened to the reliable me that used to show up for (mostly) everything and came home to see everyone every fucking summer for thirty fucking years.
Where is that person?
Who is that person?
Do I have to spell out to everyone that I want new rules?
And who is going to write these new rules?
Does it have to be me?
(On a related but probably sort of important note: Are my own rules the only ones that are no longer working? Did they only work because I didn’t have any?)
I have to ponder this before I blow anything up.
I have to ponder why/how I let it get to this point.
I have a vague memory of my therapist turned friend, Debra, suggesting (starting 25 years ago) that,“You might want to start thinking about establishing some boundaries, Stephanie. No-one can be in two places at one time, even mentally.” (Actually, I made up that last part, just now. But I like it!)
skldfjlsdjflksjdflsjflsjdfklsjkflsjdflsjdfkslfjsljfdsljf.
Maybe one of the boundaries could’ve been that your therapist shouldn’t become your friend, Stephanie?
(Right now I am going to pretend that Debra was complicit in this shift. Later I will take it back, because it’s a lie. Plus I might need to go back to her for some motherfucking therapy)
Sjflsjfklskjdlfjsklfjlsjfklsjflsjflsjfljsljskljslkfjlsjslkjsdfksjlkfd
My kid (the one I’m not with because I’m in the mountains) was sick and is better now but got her sister (the other kid I’m not with) sick. They are big picture fine and totally self sufficient teenagers so where is the muscle set that allows me to just tell them from a distance to take it easy and drink lots of water?
Oh! I know where it is. Nowhere! Just like all of my other muscle sets. Especially the ones that used to live in my arms.
Skdjflsjdflsjflskjfklsjfklsfjdkljfskldfjsklfjksljfslkjdfslkjf
My husband is holding down the fort at home (thank you love you) but preemptively telling me he’s sure he’ll wake up with this sickness tomorrow before adding that I should just enjoy myself up here because everything is under control.
Skjldfjslkdjljfdslkjfkldsjfklsjflsdjsldfjsklfjsldjfsldfjlsjdf
This.
Is.
Not.
Helpful.
And by Thisisnothelpful I mean both my husband’s words as they roll off the tongue and the fact that they are paired with the question, “Where would I find the absence verification form?” Now, I don’t want anyone (even me) to think that this question itself could throw me over the edge (how much bigger of an asshole would I be if I couldn’t even walk my husband through the school’s website - while I am in the mountains - to get it?), but then the school website was down. Again.
Again.
AGAIN!
Oh! But wait! You ARE an asshole, Stephanie! Don’t you know that this doesn’t matter at all because the entire system of education in (not only) America is hanging on by a thread so you shouldn’t piss on the people who are still doing the herculean work of showing up and trying to educate our children or at least provide a physical space for them to go to as (what’s left of) the world burns and melts and floods and trumps itself away?
The principal just left.
The senior counselor just retired.
The favorite teacher died.
The other favorite teacher had a stroke but is still there.
Ah.
There.
A door out of this hell.
The teacher that had a stroke but is still there just saved me. From myself right now, and possibly longer, if I can hold on to the meaning of what this (and this person) means.
He might even liked being referred to as a door out of hell. (He is fully intact, thank god.)
I remember once (in a better parenting moment) I said to my daughters:
“Yes. The world is a shit show at this moment. But we all have to take turns doing what we can in all the moments that we are able to because no one can do this kind of heavy lifting every day. Everyone needs to keep showing up.”
I am going to go walk and breathe in the air that is no longer smoky. At least this morning. (In better parenting moments I also tell my daughters to Stay in the Day.)
Because I am not actually an asshole.
I will check in on my family. The immediates immediately (this means several hours from now) and the family of origin and friends as I am able. (I am doing what I can to stay connected while overhauling the system. Debra would/will like this.)
And then I am going to take chocolate chip cookies to the firefighters, even though I am sure they can’t (legally) eat them anymore, because the world has become so motherfucking litigious.
I am going to make and deliver them anyway.
And then after my walk with arm weights (or now, because writing also makes me feel better and more optimistic), I will feel motivated to continue working on my stories. (This is my current day job because I don’t have another one. This is motherfucking scary but a rant for another day.)
My stories are collectively (and appropriately, at least in this moment) titled: I’m Swearing as Fast as I Can.
Maybe I will be so motivated after my walk (why didn’t I think of arm weights before?!) that I will use this as a test run for a Substack newsletter.
Maybe my voice is exactly what the motherfucking world needs.
Maybe I will consider this seriously.
Especially if it is my turn or day to show up…
ps/ironically: I burned the cookies. I will try again.