RedHead Confetti

 "It's interesting, this question of the death penalty. In many ways, we've been taught to think that the real question is: do people deserve to die for the crimes they've committed? And that's a very sensible question. But there's another way of thinking about where we are in our identity. The other way of thinking about it is not do people deserve to die for the crimes they commit, but do we deserve to kill?" Bryan Stevenson in his TED speech. I've had a weird past week. Partly overwhelming, partly spring break for my children, partly the usual crud that seems to crop up occasionally, and so I haven't felt much like writing anything. That's not to say I wasn't thinking, though, and wondering, and watching. Just that I wasn't ready to write anything about it. I watch the Rachel Maddow Show on MSNBC online. I don't have cable, so I watch it the following morning on my computer. Yesterday she had a gentleman on named Bryan Steve

You're not supposed to admit that being a parent isn't the bestest, most wonderfulest, awesome, beautiful, gorgeous, fulfilling thing that's ever happened to you. You're not supposed to admit that it's a pain in the ass, that it's tiresome, and tiring, it's horrible some times, that you want to scream, give them away, sell them, put them in mental hospital, or put yourself in mental hospital. Why is it, that mothers can't admit that it's hard being a parent, I don't know. I know part of it has to do with the obsession in the US with children. Raising children is some how seen as better than anything else you can do, more fulfilling, more perfect, more satisfying, more everything! If you aren't just orgasmic, over-the-moon-happy about it, then you're wrong! There's something terribly wrong with you, and we should call CPS, to make sure you're not abusing your kids. They're supposed to be the centre of your universe! You'r

Warning: This blog is my blog, so sometimes what I write isn't about anyone except me. Some times it's just here because I needed to get it out, needed to shout it at the digital paper, like a kid scrawling with markers. Don't take this entry personally. If you take this blog entry personally, just remember: Some Times, It's Not About You. OK? I realise there's a risk of sounding like an asshole putting it that way, but there are times that I can only be blunt. My diplomacy is not working properly right now. This blog, it's all about me. You know how you go through a funk, you're not feeling yourself, or you're not all there? I feel like that, in the strangest way. It started last week, and slowly crept up on me. Monday it hit me full in the face about nine in the morning. Often this is a precursor to a depressive cycle, but I'm not feeling the sadness that always bring the depression coming back. I don't feel the helplessness, or feeli

I am a Dreamer; that would be a Pagan person who remembers, analyses and interprets dreams. We also help other people interpret their own dreams. I've been a dreamer for as long as I can remember, and have an uncanny knack for remembering dreams that I've had years later. Of course I don't remember every dream I've had, and often not even important ones; but I do remember. That's what I'm going to write about today, dreams. I expect this post to meander quite a bit, because I'm writing it at quarter-to-eight in the morning, on a Monday, but bear with me, and we might get some where interesting. Saturday we went down-town and watched the St. Patrick's Day Parade. Tucson is big on "remembering our Founders", as most South-Western Mormon-founded towns are. Partly, I guess because of the way Mormons view death, and the afterlife. Tucson was founded roughtly 1500 years ago by the American Indians that scientists have called the Hohokam. Of cours

Warning: This post deals with topics of a sexual nature from bondage to pegging. If you're uncomfortable exploring your own taboos, or fetishes, please skip this entry. It meanders a bit, as well.  As always, if you're being abused, or are in a sexually abusive relationship please seek help immediately. Fetishes aren't about "me making you do something you don't want to do" but about "us exploring what feels good to us both". No one should ever force or coerce you into doing something you're not comfortable doing, or just plain don't want to do. If you have been in a sexually abusive relationship in the past, and either haven't dealt with it, or are in the midst of dealing with it, you might also want to skip this one. Fetish talk can trigger abuse memories, inadvertently, and I don't want to hurt you.    Always Remember, Safe. Sane. Enthusiastic Consent! Period. Full Stop. Yesterday I was working in my yard and had a st

Warning: I explore bigotry and prejudice, my own, and how I feel about them. What I'm doing to stop them, and how they came about. This might be too much religion blaming for you, and if so, feel free to skip past this one.  Everyone has them, bigotries. I know we do, we have these prejudices from the cradle, something we inherit from our parents, our grandparents, our families and friends as we grow. I have them, I know. I try to work around them, ignore them, discard them. But unfortunately bigotries are like dogma, they just don't stay gone. I have actually discarded the prejudices my mother instilled in me. They never sat right with me, to be frank. I'm a person who innately seeks fairness, and bigots aren't fair. She never taught me to care what colour some one's skin was. I can honestly truly say I was raised to be colour blind. “Red and Yellow, Black and White/ they are precious in his sight/ Jesus loves the little children of the w