Welcome to MKE


The Milwaukee Museum of Art, aka The Calatrava (named after the architect) is a piece of art itself and is stationed at the very east end of downtown Milwaukee. I haven’t been there yet. Nor have I been to the Veterans Museum next to it. Maybe 2019.

Next week, an estimated 600 of the top Weightlifters in America will gather in my little adopted home town so I thought it may be helpful to give suggestions on where to go and where not to go; which sites to see (dude, miss the Bronze Fonz and you’ll be sorry), and hopefully helpful hints to not be carjacked or freeze your cinnamon balls off along the shores of Lake Michigan.

First off, I guess I’ll give a little disclaimer. I’ve only lived here 7 years and there’s a lot I haven’t seen (like the MKE Museum of Art or the Veterans museum, duh.) Also, these are my opinions. If you’re from Milwaukee and don’t like them, suck it. My blog. I love that you’re all coming here so I get to watch three days straight of awesome weightlifting (some sessions will include my Team SAW teammates, yeah Team SAW) without more than a 10 minute drive. See, everywhere you go in Milwaukee takes about 10 minutes to get there. Oh sure, it may be 12 minutes or even 18 minutes but it’ll feel like 10.  That is, unless there’s a shooting road rage incident on the 43 curve which is kinda likely these days.

See, MKE patrons love their road rage. Are really quite good at it. I’ve had a grown man in a truck halfway hanging out of his window screaming at me while flipping me two birds because I didn’t blow through a red light like he wanted me to (which begs the question, was there a third hand driving the truck?) I dunno, I try not to ask those questions. Merging along the highways is a personal attack which must be defended at all costs so good luck with that. Of course then there’s the awesome new trend of shooting at people along the 43 corridor which runs north and south on the west end of downtown.

I’m sure you’ll be fine though.

The downtown MKE section of town is actually very easy to maneuver. It’s small and filled with lots to do and the local cheeseheads aren’t bothered at all by this thing called winter so you’ll see walkers all over. Including the panhandlers who tend to focus on Wisconsin Ave where the venue is located. Look, we all like to think we’re helping out when we donate to a panhandler but really, please don’t. Panhandlers of MKE can make up to $700 a day and actually can become quite aggressive. Not so much fun for us locals. Because of this, depending on where you’re staying and if there are vacant buildings along your path, please consider taking the 4 minute Uber/Lyft ride back to your hotel. Especially if you’re a female…and alone. Please.

The last little bit of black light we need to shine on the ‘rent by the hour hotel carpeting’ is the little fact that MKE is the carjack capital of America. Not. Even. Kidding. If you DO have your car or a rental, please do not keep any valuables in your car. Please do not, for one second even if filling up your gas tank, leave an unlocked and running car unattended. Just. Don’t.

Now on to the fun stuff. First, food (food is always first with us.) We do not have a fancy Whole Foods downtown but there is a Metro Market on the East Side and if it’s like ours here in Wauwatosa (just West of Milwaukee) you’ll be fine. There is also a Sendiks 2go on the campus of Marquette which is just West of you. The Metro Market will be larger and a little more convenient since you don’t have to deal with a small campus with lots of lights and entitled little shitheads running around. There is also the Milwaukee Public Market just south of downtown in the 3rd Ward. You can even hop on The HOP which is the new streetcar which is a colossal waste of money and has already cost the city and county (aka, us) millions of dollars in lawsuits for injuries to cyclists along the route but hey, have at it. Just be warned, the Public Market is a miniature version of what you would expect in Seattle so if you want true groceries, stick with Metro Market.


The HOP has been running for a couple of weeks now and is a straight shot from the 3rd ward to the East Side. I highly recommend it because my taxes are paying for it. You’re welcome.

*An honorable mention goes to Glorioso’s Italian Market. If you’re keto, you’ll cream your jeans for this place. If you’re not, you’ll still love it. Also on the East Side.

As you can tell, MKE is split up in so many miniature sections that I have no idea what most places are called. I now know that the Metro Market is on the East Side which in reality is about a mile and a half or so from the Milwaukee Center. The 3rd Ward is south of the MKE Center and has lots of fun eats and shops. If you’re from anywhere with good BBQ, don’t go to the Smoke Shack. The $25 they’re asking for 3 ounces of brisket will enrage you to the point of wanting to lecture the rude waitress on REAL BRISKET and how much it should really cost. Oh, that’s just me? Anyways. We don’t often go to the 3rd Ward but just south of that (like, a couple of streets away) is Walkers Point and we DO do (doodoo) that area.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Downtown. I need to preface this next section with an explanation of all that is good and holy for Milwaukeean’s (totally a word.) Cheese curds; Brats/Sausage, and Friday Fish Fry. The best place to get all 3 is Lakefront Brewery. If you go on a Friday night, you get polka. Not even kidding. Don’t worry if you don’t drink, they have soda’s and water and you still get to enjoy the German style beer hall and eat the best deep fried cheese curds in Wisconsin. Other places probably have deep fried cheese curds and fish fry, dunno, I don’t go to other places.  Lakefront is technically in the Riverwest section of town which is just west of the Milwaukee River that flows through town and on the North part of downtown.

**This is a good place to discuss where not to get lost. The North side of downtown. Stay off North Ave and Capitol Ave. If you need your Wendy’s fix, you’ll have to drive a little more west of me to get it and I highly recommend you come around the freeway. Basically, just skip it.

Water street has the best sausage houses in town (yes, it’s a sausage house. Get’cher mind out of the gutter Perv, they serve brats. Duh.) If you’re looking for some nightlife, Water street is also one option. My 20’somethings enjoy the EastSide a little better with a little less pretense and cheaper.

As much as I seem to be bagging on my adoptive city, I’ll tell ya what, we do food right. You just really can’t do wrong. We love tacos at Laughing Taco and Ice Cream and Purple Door. We love small plates at The Rumpus Room and La Merenda. Milwaukeean’s love their Custard and Burgers but I don’t so I have no idea where you should go for that. Downtown also has the Safehouse. It is a spy themed restaurant that will require a password to get in. If you don’t know the password, the ‘M’ host will have you act out a quick mission for entry. Don’t even ask, I don’t know the password. I do; however; know where the lever (say it like this, “leeever”) is to get in but I’m not telling. I’m a bitch that way. It’s pretty fun and the food is fine. Either before or after the Safehouse, you need to walk around the corner and pay homage to the Bronze Fonze.


Did you even think I was kidding?

Just go get your picture taken here. Sure, it’s silly but then you have a picture with the Bronze Fonz and do you even think you’re life is complete without it?

Now, if you’re feeling VERY adventurous, I highly recommend heading both south and west. South to Bayview and West to Wauwatosa (hey, I live there!) First, Bayview. This is another one of our fav hang outs. A very very naughty cheat night is The Vanguard. Made from scratch brats and sausages with toppings that include cheese curds (duh) or even macaroni and cheese. The best part besides the food? They play old Wrastling videos all night so you can be entertained by Mean Gene Okerland and his motley crew. We haven’t gone in a while because I haven’t been good enough for a good cheat but it’s perfect for after lifting. The main street in Bayview is Kinnickinnic (also known as KK) and there are lots of fun places to eat. Bayview is super hippy dippy and fun. We love it over there.

And while East Tosa doesn’t have as much as Bayview, we do have the best donuts in town at Cranky Al’s. Again, if you’re venturing to East Tosa, please take the 94 West freeway. Do not cut through Lisbon or North. Anyways, Cranky’s is a Milwaukee institution. When Alton Brown comes to town, he goes to Cranky’s. This past October, Matt and I flew to Texas through Minneapolis where we picked up the Ozman so he could have fun with his bestie. On the way to the airport, we stopped at Cranky’s and grabbed a bag of donuts for Oz and were rewarded with a huge smile. It’s one of the only things he asks for. When Oz was much younger, we met Cranky at Costco. When Matt told Oz that it was the actual Cranky, I thought he was going to cry. The absolute respect and reverence he showed was pretty lulz. I’ll be bringing boxes of Cranky’s to the meet.  For friends.

Two other stops are McBobs and Ono Kine Grindz. McBobs has the best corned beef you will ever have. They have a burger named The Highlander which is a half pound beef added to a half pound of corned beef. Matt has ate 3 in one sitting when he was still competing with Champions League. He was pretty sick afterwards but was eating my leftovers about an hour later. They have other food too and McBob’s is technically in Milwaukee but it’s worth the 10 minute drive. I guarantee it!

Also, if you’ve been to Hawaii and miss the food, you need to come over to Ono Kine Grindz. When Matt and I started dating, Ono’s was just getting up and running. Matt told me there’s a Hawaiian food joint open a block away from his house and I was all, “Ya, I don’t think so” but then, ya, I was wrong. David and Guy will warm your tummy with authentic food and Poke and warm your heart with aloha. Also, they have a market so you can take some chocolate covered mac nuts home. Really.


OKG in East Tosa is worth the 10 minute drive. SO worth the 10 minute drive!


Of course in Milwaukee there’s Harley Davidson. If you’re into bikes, take a tour of the museum. We’ve gone a few times and I love it. They have an amazing gift shop and restaurant.

Also, new this year on the grounds of the brand new Milwaukee Bucks arena is a Christmaskindlmarket. I went the first weekend it opened at it was an absolute blast! I did a bunch of Christmas shopping and had amazing hot cocoa cocoa (geez, now I want hot cocoa.)

The best pizza in Milwaukee is Ned’s closer to the airport. Another Milwaukee institution.

In conclusion, Milwaukee is just like any other city. We have great food and bevvies; some crime; and some cold this time of year. Be smart and you’ll be fine. I want to wish all the lifters white lights; the judges little reason to turn down a lift; the friends and families success to your loved ones, and joyous coaches celebrations.

Wayne Campbell: So, do you… come to Milwaukee often?
Alice Cooper: Well, I’m a regular visitor here, but Milwaukee has certainly had its share of visitors. The French missionaries and explorers began visiting here in the late 16th century.
Pete: Hey, isn’t “Milwaukee” an Indian name?
Alice Cooper: Yes, Pete, it is. In fact , it’s pronounced “mill-e-wah-que” which is Algonquin for “the good land.”
Wayne Campbell: I was not aware of that.

Wayne’s World



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Recently, I had a discussion with a Canadian lifting friend after she Twittered that America is a Shithole. I Twittered back that I love my country and she countered with something along the lines of, “You can still love your country and be ashamed of it.”

In general, I don’t shame. I hate the word quite honestly most likely due to the fact that I heard it a lot growing up. I remember dating a man when my twins were younger who grabbed Zac and said he was so ashamed of him for some type of behavior that while probably wasn’t awesome, was still toddler appropriate (toddlers can be dicks…change my mind.)  That happened once. And only once.

I have felt ashamed in life. Gawds know I deserved to feel ashamed. I’ve had moments of complete failure as a compassionate human being. I have had moments of complete failure as a mother and even with apologies, I’ll take those failures to my grave. There is no amount of external feedback that can make me feel worse than what I do to myself when I know I’ve fucked up. I don’t live on others shame meter, I have my own and anyone who knows me well understands that the standards I hold myself to are far more intense than what can come at me in a Twitter conversation.

That said, I do not feel shame for something I didn’t do. As hard as I can be on myself, I can be equally dismissive when people try to lay their shit at my feet and expect me to take it on. Nope. NoNoNo. Not gonna happen. Sorry not sorry. Because of that, it’s likely I can come off as cold or uncaring. Remember that time I said sorry not sorry? Yeah, same. I wasted way too many years of my young life worrying about what others thought (which is categorically different, by the way, than not caring about how my actions actually affect others. Fucking duh) to worry now. Besides that, so many people are void of logic and reason that I’d be playing the part of a pinball if I even tried to follow what others are caring about in a particular moment of a particular day. (Morals and values, try it sometime. They don’t tend to change so people know exactly what to expect.)

So here’s how this works, if President Trump tweets something, I don’t care. I don’t follow him. I don’t have an agonizing emotional reaction. Doesn’t affect me in any way whatsoever. If the current Administration enacts policy that I disagree with to the point that I feel strongly about it, I’ll write to Senator Ron Johnson (Tammy Baldwin is pretty busy with her cronies in California so I won’t bother her. Besides, if she throws Veterans under the bus, what the hell is she going to do for me?) I may tweet about it but I’m pretty busy on the Tweets following Minnesota sports teams that I can’t watch locally. That’s it.

Secondly, I love my country. I am a proud American. I’ve kind of felt like an outsider here in heavy liberal ‘Tosa where I’m bombarded with all the ways I should be put out by Trump and his nazi deplorables (uhhhh, I’m one I guess) but last month the hubs, Ozman, and I went to Texas for a wedding. The instant we left the airport (I’d still prefer to head out the North entrance instead of driving all around Ft. Worth to get back to the road heading to Wichita Falls but had we done that I’d have missed what I’m writing about here) it was clear that we were in the land of proud Americans and proud Texans. I rolled down the window and just took in the fresh smell of patriotism.

Texas sized American and Texas flags flying big and boldly. I tell ya what, there is something about Texans that I love (being one and all y’all) that I lost sight of when my Texas experience shortly turned so sour and unhealthy that I realized I’d just bunched up the whole ball of shit in my head and forgot about the good stuff of being Texan. To be in an entire state where folks (generally) seem to love their country was good for my soul. A little re-setting of standing as a proud American.

Anyways, back to the Shithole comment from my lovely Canadian friend. Now, I am not going to deny that America has shithole neighborhoods. I’ve seen some of them; have been lost in some of them; and live in a city where we’re close enough to one that we feel it’s crime spilling over to our driveway. Do I feel ashamed of those neighborhoods? Uhhhhh, no. Why would I? Am I disappointed they exist, uhhhh ya, I’m not a complete bitch. Do I blame Trump for them?Uhhhhhh, no, why would I? (My main argument to those who are outraged on a daily basis of Trump is that local politicians wield far more power over their daily lives than Washington, in general. Go be outraged at your city hall.)

Is America a shithole as a whole? I don’t know, I mean, I don’t believe that to be truthful but there could actually be people here who believe it so I don’t know if my opinion is more better than theirs, just different. Both of us could probably find a bunch of “facts” to argue on the internet for days. But I can’t do that, I’m busy loving my life with my hot hunky husband and my children and friends.

Shame. Back to the part where she wanted me to feel ashamed of my country. First off, why? I mean, really, who cares what I think or feel. Especially on the internet. Why? What have I done to feel ashamed about? I do support border control (at all costs really) and fully comprehend that puts me on the “other side” of an argument. So what? Is that enough to change what someone is having for lunch today? Gawds I doubt it. Why does someone else want me to feel shame for something? I can’t even get my head around that one.

And OHBYTHEWAY, addressing the giant bald eagle in the room, uhhhh, dude; you live in Canada. You, of course, can have the opinion that America is a shithole and then go right back to watching your CBC to see how your PM is embarrassing you around the world that particular day. I have been so curious these last two years why some Canadians have such intense hatred for Donald  Trump. Especially in regards to immigration and border control (Dear Cunucks: your border agents are some of the biggest assholes I’ve ever had to deal with while traveling in my life. I blame Trudeau. Heh, but not really.)

I’m okay with someone having an opinion about America, kind of the point of America in the first place. Yes? What I will react to (albeit 7 weeks later) is telling me I should feel ashamed of my country. For me, that crosses a line of decency among friendly acquaintances. Disagreement is fine, telling someone how to feel is manipulative and hateful. Those are two traits I don’t allow into my  life (ask any relative in Minnesota.) Telling me I should feel ashamed of my country ends that friendly acquaintance. Not because I disagree with you (I do that all the time and still manage to live a happy life) but because when you turn into someone who tried to virtue signal bully me, well, you’ll get the same result as Lynda and Pastor John (and a few asshole bosses in my past) got, silence. You’re out. I’m too busy over here surrounding myself with awesome people who are comfortable in disagreement without telling me how I should feel because their opinion is superior and the final say in life.

My son, Oscar, has already delay-enlisted in the US Army. He’s been sworn in (three times actually. He’s like the token swearing in kid who will jump at every chance to participate in a ceremony that means so much to him. Also, I’ve missed every swearing in. Bad mom) and has taken this job specifically because he wants to serve his country.  I did that. I instilled a love of country to my son. Good mom. All three of my children voted this year for the first time ever because they can and they all saw how important it was. I know it sounds as if I’m bragging about that because I am. I am proud as fuck of them and their rights to be a part of this democratic republic. One of our local elections came down to 21 votes and three came from this house (that is until our election official miraculously found an extra two boxes of votes and the other guy one. Funny how that happened all over Wisconsin and the country this year.)

I’m not going to be ashamed of America. Ever. Even if you want me to be.

The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.

Thomas Jefferson 

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Friday Jams: Girls


This is my toxic, masculine husband. Just look how’s he trying to diminish my potential. Can you feel his overbearing and unfair energy at my femininity? You can see how he probably orders me around the house to go make him a sammich or he’ll unleash his toxic masculinity on me as I quiver in fear. I hate that he’s too old to have taken Toxic Masculinity 101 while he was working on his Chemical Engineering degree at Iowa. If he had, I’m sure he’d be the perfect man that no one needs to ever fear.

But wait, I need other people to fear my toxic, masculine husband! Why? Because there are bad people in the world, some even in Wisconsin. People who may intend me harm in one way or another. People who may be brought to their senses when they see this huge, toxic, masculine man standing behind me. People who may be trying to rip me off who immediately change their tone when Matt walks in (happens. A lot.) People who respond to the deep, booming voice on the telephone who instantly decide to work with us instead of against us (like a Step-daughters landlord.)

I feel so very concerned for so many of my friends who’ve also married toxic, masculine males: Liz; Olivia; Victoria; Yvonne; Eliane, to name just a few. I am so sorry they live within the confines of toxic masculinity every day of their lives, like me. I mean, I’m not gonna lie; toxic masculinity has it’s perks AMMIRIGHT girls? We get to spend our days watching our men work their asses off so we can all have better lives. We can watch and wait for them to return home for one of those amazing toxic, masculine hugs (and more;) We can sit back and be appreciated for who we are because our men believe in us and encourage us.

By the way, women can exhibit toxic masculinity. NO WAY! Yup. Really, you’re just talking about bullying added to the war on men. The new hashtag movement is to ensure that men are sensitive and cuddly and non-assertive and soft spoken. Down with the Alpha male, up with the Brookfield dad! (Brookfield is a neighboring community where Matt’s sis and family live. We used to go to his niece and nephew’s sports activities where I noticed that 95% of the Brookfield Dad’s were around 5’7 and 145 pounds with very skinny ankles following their legging’s and riding boots wearing wives around being barked at for not grabbing the right flavor fruit roll up for little jonny. By the way, skinny ankles on a man freaks me out.) Our neighbor is a Brookfield dad living in Tosa. When he get’s home with the kids, he whines at them. Whines. For all of his faults I can honestly say I’ve never heard Pastor John whine at us kids or our mother. I can’t imagine father-in-law Tom whining at any of his kids either. But then again, there was no Brookfield Dad syndrome in the 60’s and 70’s. Alpha males were encouraged back then. On the plus side, our neighbor’s wife never has to worry about toxic masculinity. Good for her.

But now we need to let men know that their world-wide domination is OVER! Fffffffffuck Youuuuuuuuu! Oh by the way, another term for toxic masculinity is domestic violence. Yup. See, we assume that if a man is masculine, then he automatically has the potential to beat on his wife. Not even understanding that those whom beat on others actually have very low self-worth or self-esteem therefore submitting those around them gives them moments of worth. Fucking duh.

My daughter has a new boyfriend. He’s probably a toxic masculine. At 29 he owns his own business; hustles day and night to make sure he and his employees are working throughout the year; has owned his home for three years already and hired a housekeeper to ensure that any time his girlfriend’s mom drops in, his house is clean (actually that’s not true. He hired a housekeeper because he likes a clean home and the woman he hired needed money to help her family.) Yup, that dude just has the toxic masculine oozing out of him. OH, he also cans fruit and veggies with his dad during the weekends so they have a full pantry of food in the winter. He adores my daughter and encourages her to be the best version of herself. Poor Zandra.

Let’s see, if I were to name the battles in the last two years that Americans have fought they would be the wars on: conservatives (racists); white men (privileged racists); those who want border control (cold hearted racists), and now men in general (toxic racists.) At this point, I’m just really happy Matt has me to protect him from the hoards of feminists who wish him harm (or worse.) I mean, come one, we all know I’m the scary one anyway.

Motely Crue: Girls, Girls, Girls. To celebrate toxic masculinity, 80’s style!

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Monday Bacon: I Remember


Me and my Grandpa on my Baptism day. I loved my Grandpa. Look at his hands. They were always strong and reaching for another hand to hold whether it be mine or my Grandma’s. I still have this dress. It speaks to a day I don’t remember but probably enjoyed. I hope cake was involved. I just really love cake.

One of the trickier aspects of sharing personal stories is that, while the writer has had a lifetime to process information, the reader is “hearing” it for the first time and it can be a bit shocking. I guess this is one of those times. Writing about dark events that happened in the past are just that, in the past. They do not speak to who I am today, but to paths crossed in the yesteryear.

I believe, or at the very least, my observation is that men and women don’t want to talk about sexual abuse because they are afraid that others will judge who they are today. See, when you are sexually abused, you generally don’t feel very good about yourself whether presently or in the past. Being sexually abused is dirty. It is painful. It is confusing. It rocks the entire foundation of your existence and I’m not even going to add the words, “especially in the case of…” Each case is horrible. Each story weaves a tale with few chances of Happily Ever After. 

I imagine that feelings may be somewhat similar after a sexual assault. It’s scary and dirty and how will people look at “me” because they can’t process that I’ve been sexually assaulted (or abused.) See, this is a difference between people who have been sexually abused or assaulted and people who haven’t. They don’t understand. Why would they? At the pits of their existence this evil does not dwell. It’s uncomfortable, gods it’s so uncomfortable.

We have come a long way in addressing sexual abuse. From the Catholic church “scandals” (imo, ‘scandal’ is too pretty a word for the rampant Pedophilia of the Catholic church. I am guessing, and I’m probably right, that the Catholic church is the largest Pedophilia racket in the history of the world. It is still happening today and the Pope claims that the “reporting” of these RAPES are the work of the devil. I literally hope hell has a special place waiting for him. He is the Big Daddy Pimp of them all. Rot, fucker.)

Back in 2002, the Boston Globe shined a big ‘ol spotlight on the Catholic RAPES and people started talking about it. At least, they started to talk about how others were raped and molested and in small ways began to open doors on talking more freely about personal sexual abuse. I am lucky enough to have married two men (one at a time, duh) who, when I shared that I had been sexually abused starting from the age of 9, were absolutely and unequivocally shocked. I mean, it’s shocking, I get it. See, they came from the other side. The side where ‘these types of things’ don’t happen. Ever. That’s a good thing. I’m glad they didn’t have to be exposed to something as ugly as sexual abuse. That they or someone they love don’t have those memories.

Because I remember. I remember every detail, even before I was raped for the first time. My brother wanted to play a game called baseball where each base was a sexual act and did I want to play? Uh, no. I’m not comfortable with that. In fact, I am so uncomfortable with that I’ll tell mom. Mom will make sure that doesn’t happen again. But no, Mom didn’t make sure. She said that was ridiculous and don’t ever talk like that again.

Shame strike 1, 2, and 3. Shut up Jules, no one here cares. It’s ugly and it’s dark and don’t ever bring it up again. That was a direct order, don’t ever talk about anything like this again. I was on my own. I was 9. On my own with a pedophile for a brother.

I remember the first time I was raped. I remember exactly where and when. I remember the smells; the pain; the shame; the confusion, and most of all the overwhelming sadness that I was no longer a little girl. I knew I wasn’t an adult or a teen or anything else but I for sure was no longer a little girl. That was the end of my childhood. In one night at 9 years old. I was dirty and no longer a good girl and I was alone. I have many pictures of my childhood and maybe I’m the only one who can see how sad 9 year old Juli’s eyes looked after that summer. But I know when I look at those pictures how much I changed. I remember.

Those feelings lasted for many years of my life. I would look at the High School football quarterback (he was a cutie. Black hair and bright blue eyes and pretty nice to everyone) and think, I am not worthy of a nice boy like that. I’m dirty. I’m not a good girl. I don’t even get a popular bad boy who probably wasn’t even that bad. I’m only worthy of crappy boys who don’t treat girls well but that’s okay because I’m not worthy of being treated well. What a fookin’ mess. I am very fortunate I stepped out of that fog and was even to do it fairly early in life. I didn’t waste one more day thinking I wasn’t worthy of a good man. I raised the bar for those around me and especially myself. I’m lucky. I healed. There’s scar tissue of course, but my mind is clear and I mostly love who looks back at me in the mirror (I have a scalp thing going on from frying my melon to the point of blistering at a Games last June. It’s not awesome. I don’t like seeing that in the mirror. Other than that, I’m good.)

I have viewed the openess of many actors and actresses who have felt free enough to share their past assaults against women and men in power who for so long felt that their jobs depended on keeping their mouths shut. That is an abuse of power and I’m glad for them that they were able to free themselves. However, an increasingly disturbing trend is gaining steam much like a tsunami wave we may be powerless to stop when we want it to stop. That is, men and women can suddenly accuse another of abuse and it is assumed to be true. Jobs lost in an instant. Families blown apart. Public humiliation. The #metoo train has gained enough speed that it can’t be stopped for one of the most important American rights, due process.

Feminism has become more about white male bashing than equality and equity. The white male is our enemy. They are the plantation owners of present time and they are evil. Now, I don’t buy into this. First off, I mean, many of you have met my white, male husband. So you understand how I believe him to be the greatest of all men who walk the planet. Evil comes in all shapes and sizes. It comes form of men wearing robes at Sunday mass; it comes in the form of a brother; it comes in the form of a female teacher; a boss; a stranger; a friend. Evil lurks and we are so quick to turn on each other than no one is stopping to ask, “Does this have anything to do with my life today?” or “Am I qualified to have an opinion on whether or not this is true?” or “Does this affect me or someone I love?” We jump. We ask one accused to be crucified while make excuses for another.

It is one of the most dangerous games we can play against each other and it terrifies me. I have watched the ever increasing trend of sexual abuse and sexual assault become political and I am concerned that the progress we’ve made in bringing it out in the open will be lost among the political hatred towards an opposing group screaming, “BURN HER!” We minimize the strength and fortitude shown when putting abuse behind us and living our best lives with a hashtag. A fucking hashtag. Have we become so simple fucking minded that we can’t use our words so we think putting a hashtag in front of some trend is going to give it power?

No. At least, we’re not here.

Believe an accuser. Believe the accused. Be happy that sexual abuse hasn’t touched your life or if it has, be proud that you’ve overcome the pain of it. If you haven’t overcome the pain of it, get help. Very few of the hashtag warrior have YOUR best interest at heart rather, they want to make some type of social media statement. Fill your life with peace. Gawds we need peace these days. Peace and kindness and if you’re really lucky, deep fried cheese curds at Lakefront Brewery.

See how lucky I am.

Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.

The Dalai Lama


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