Dear Darling Ones,

In exactly six months I will turn fifty. 50! Today is my half-birthday. I only remember this because when my niece was younger she made a big deal about half-birthdays. I have friends who celebrate their family half-birthdays with half a birthday cake, which is the cutest damn thing ever.

For my 50th birthday it is my fondest wish to finally forgive myself for existing in a body that refused to be tamed. I also want to publish a novel.

I’ve been doing a lot of reading on fat justice (Aubrey Gordon’s, What We Don’t Talk About When We Talk About Fat) and radical self love (Sonya Renee Taylor’s, The Body is Not an Apology). My hope is if I read enough, if I learn enough, if my humanity is reaffirmed enough I will realize my inability to shrink my body to society’s comfort is not something I need to apologize for nor does it make me a disappointment.

Reading books like this and Ariel Henley’s brilliant memoir A Face For Picasso is difficult. It’s a relief to see that despite my chronic loneliness, I’m not alone.

“Though I grew up longing for acceptance, I would have settled for anonymity. I wanted to blend in, to be normal. Instead I lived my life in reference to and as an extension of my ugliness.” When I read this passage from Henley’s book it took my breath away. I was shocked how someone who was not me felt exactly like I do.

Now that I’m almost fifty I know I don’t owe anyone prettiness or beauty or even niceness, but at the same time I still think if I gave people all those things they would forgive me my ugliness, be kinder to me, or allow me that sweet, sweet anonymity. At the very least I think that if I’m smart or funny or polite enough it will ward off the comments and the concern. Has this ever worked once in my entire life? Maybe, I’m not sure. I do know that some of the worst bullying and comments about my appearance come from people who claim to love me.

Years ago a woman who called me her best friend said this to me, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you should try out for The Biggest Loser and maybe you could get a boyfriend while you’re there.” I laughed off the comment at the time because that’s what fat, ugly people do. It’s what I was taught, because it was my fault they were making fun of me.

It’s like Lucy Grealy wrote in Autobiography of a Face, “Besides, I reasoned, what could I do about it? I was ugly so people were going to make fun of me. I thought it was their right to do so simply because I was so ugly. So I just better get used to it.”

The thing is, you never get used to it. Not ever. I’m nearly fifty and I can still call forth an ocean of tears thinking about what that woman who was supposed to be my friend said to me. Or the boys who relentlessly bullied me about my size throughout my school years. Or that guy who stopped me in a bar while I was in college to tell me how brave I was for existing in my body. Or. . . the list is endless.

So, fingers crossed this is something I can give myself for my birthday.

Yours,
Jodi

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Oh Darling Ones,

Today a man had the audacity to say something shitty, ill-informed, and stupid about women in music on Twitter and I had the misfortune of reading it. To say I lost my shit is an understatement. I burst into flames and my hair turned to snakes. I did not take this shitty tweet well, not at all. It doesn’t help that this tweet came on top of a week where all my twitter friends were listing their best/worst/first/loudest concerts and all the lists were full of dudes. Like most of the lists were JUST dudes.

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it 92,184,047 times. Men do not value art made by women. I will say it one more time only louder, MEN DO NOT VALUE ART MADE BY WOMEN.

Men think they value art made by women. They say they value art made by women. But when it comes down to it what they show is very different than what they tell. Their tweets are filled with chatter about books/movies/music made by men and about men. Every instagram post of a record they are “now playing” is by a man. All their favorite movies are about men, and aside from Donna Tartt, I bet they couldn’t name five women authors who are currently alive and have published a book in the last year.

It frustrates and enrages me to no end.

So what got the rage lasers all heated up when I as trying to nap? This numbskull who said right out in the open for all to see:

I am happy for Taylor Swift and Adele but I am from the era of Tori Amos and Sinead O’Connor. I miss when it was a female singer-songwriter’s job to scream at the sky and exorcise a 10,000 year old demon.

— Louis Virtel (@louisvirtel) November 18, 2021

I am not entirely sure what point Louis Virtel is trying to make. Is it that he doesn’t care for the music of Taylor Swift and Adele? Is it that he misses 90s-era Tori Amos and Sinéad O’Connor? Maybe he wanted to jam his entire foot into his mouth and admit he has not been paying attention to music made by women in the last thirty years. If he really missed Tori Amos he could go listen to her brand-new record that came out in October of 2021.

While I cannot know the intent behind the tweet, I can know its impact.

To begin with he completely ignores or maybe he’s ignorant of the history of how women have been treated by the music industry. Perhaps he has no clue how many radio programmers refused to put music made by women into mass rotation because “they’re already playing a different girl.” One girl at a time. How about how some radio stations won’t play more than one song by a woman in an hour?

Once again we have a man telling women they’re doing art wrong, where wrong means not making art to his liking. We have a man who has decided that one form of female expression is more valid than another based on some mysterious standard most definitely defined by men. We have a man gatekeeping what is cool and what is not. We have a man disappointed that, in his mind, for the last thirty years women have not been revealing their pain and turning it into art in a way that appeals to him. Goddamnit female singer-songwriters, why don’t you think about Louis’ entertainment?

Also, I am super curious, what is a male singer-songwriter’s job? How is it different than a female singer-songwriter’s job? And most importantly WHY is it different?

What angers me the most is not even that he’s slagging on Taylor and Adele. They’ll be fine without his ears. They’ve got millions of dollars and fans to keep them warm at night.

What enrages me is he acts as though there are not women screaming at the sky & exorcising a 10,000 year-old demon through their music right now.

Excuse me, Mr. Head Up Your Ass. If that’s what you’re looking for might I suggest: Neko Case, Julien Baker, Mitski, Japanese Breakfast, Morgan Wade, Phoebe Bridgers, Lucy Dacus, Tristen, TORRES, Jensen McRae, Sharon Van Etten, Angel Olsen, Madi Diaz, Joy Oladokun, Waxahatchee, Jade Jackson. That should get you started. Do you need me to make you a mixtape? Also Liz Phair and Fiona Apple, both 90s rockers, have released amazing and vital albums within the last year or so.

The reason this whole thing is so enraging is that Louis isn’t a unique kind of sexist. Most men are. It’s how men have treated women making music since the inception of rock & roll.

Fucking Mediocre Men could you please fucking knock it off and stop trying to give me a fucking heart attack with your boneheaded nonsense.

Seriously,
Jodi

P.S. Don’t you dare #NotAllMen me or I will curse you so hard you will spend the rest of your life suffering from minor inconveniences. You will never hit a green light again. You will stub your toe every time you walk past a piece of furniture. Your favorite flavor of potato chips will never be in stock again. All the papers will cut you. I am a spinster bog witch. You know I can do it.

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Hi Darling Ones,

I’ve been blogging for 21 years, 2 months, 3 weeks, and 5 days, and for the first time in my entire blogging career? practice? habit? Anyway, for the first time ever my browser crashed in the middle of a post and I lost the entire thing.

Lucky for you I’ve got a keen memory and I remember all the babble I had typed up to the point of the crash. I was telling you about how there’s a roasted red pepper sauce simmering on my stove. The sauce is gonna be used for whatever half-used box of pasta I have in the cupboard & meatballs. Tomorrow it will be meatball subs. I was telling all this not just to brag, but to also advertise my best trait to any one who wants to makeout with me after eating meatball subs.

See, I had a weird sex dream last night and it’s left me feeling a little heart achey and lonely. The dream was weird because I’m not entirely sure who it was about. The object of my lust was either a grown-up version of my friend from high school, Ted or it was Ben from season 5 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which I’m in the middle of re-watching because it’s good crocheting TV.

Which, finally, not only brings you up to date before the crash but also to the point of this post.

I finished Blanket #26 the other night. It’s the yellow chevron one I talked about making back in April. It was the blanket that was supposed to solve all my problems. Darling Ones, it did not. But it is done and it is lovely as a sunny day. There’s an added bonus of having way overestimated how much yellow yarn would be needed to complete this project. So, I’m in the midst of trying to making something called, and I quote, “Cozy Hug Throw.” We’ll see how that goes.

In case you are curious, here is a list of all the blankets I think I’ve made so far. There were some pre-list-making blankets that I made right after college, but those were an abominable and ugly waste of yarn and I pretend they didn’t happen. Also, there are a lot of chevron blankets on the list. This is not my fault. Once I made one ALLLLLL the fam wanted one because they are dirty copycats. Betcha didn’t know I was a hand-made blanket trendsetter.

So here’s the list. You can see some of them pictured above.

Blankets I Have Made

1. Rainbow Stripes
2. Jaycie’s Baby Blanket
3. Orange & Blue Chevron
4. Leftover Softee Chevron
5. Leftover Softee Large Granny
6. Grey Granny Squares
7. Random Redheart leftover Chevron
8. Sully’s Blanket
9. Ericka’s Grammu Chevron
10. Ericka’s Roseanne Granny
11. Ben’s Charlie Brown Chevron
12. Max’s Wild Chevron
13. Jaycie’s Ombre Granny
14. Tracy’s Chevron
15. Kelli’s Jackrabbit Chevron
16. Nolie’s Skull Granny
17. Cade’s Red & Aqua Chevron
18. Liam’s Red & Purple Chevron
19. Mom’s Modern Grammu Chevron
20. Dolly’s Green Abacus Blanket
21. Kelli’s Buffalo Plaid
22. Rose Gold Alpine Stitch
23. 2020 Temp Blanket
24. Sonya’s Salem Creek Alpine Stitch
25. Kari’s Magic Lantern
26. Yellow Chevron

Tomorrow I’ll tell you about another thing I made. Try to contain your excitement.

Love,
Jodi

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Dear Darling Ones,

Whenever I’m gonna write about being tall I love to pull out my elementary school class pictures from the 70s & 80s. They wonderfully illustrate how I’ve been an odd, physical other from the get go. I start out in first grade just being regular tall and then as the years progress I keep going & going. Fourth grade (the second from the bottom) looks the worst but only because in fifth grade (the bottom) I was in a fifth/sixth combination class and so all the kids on the top riser with me are a year older than I am.

Fun fact: The kid who told me The Rolling Stones were dirty in fourth grade is in four of the five pictures, though you can only see him in two of them.

My unusual height is on my mind today, specifically, because I abandoned the Susan Sontag biography I was reading. I quit for three reasons:

1. The author used “begs the questions” twice in four pages and this was after I had congratulated him earlier in the book for using “raises the question.”
2. It was really fucking boring. I’m not familiar with Sontag’s work nor the people who influenced her nor the people she hung out with.
3. Sontag (through journal entries) and the author made a big deal about her being tall. I googled, and she was only 5’8″.

Number three had zero things to do with why I quit the book. I am used to people, and women specifically, thinking 5’8″ women are giant freaks of nature and while it annoys me to my very core I live with it. When she was here last week, 5’8″ Sister #2 said she laughs when people call her tall.

“Do you feel tall?” I asked her.
“No.”
“Even compared to Sister #3 and Sister #4?”
“No,” she said. “I just think they’re short.”

At one point in the biography Sontag says you cannot have a proper boyfriend unless he was taller than you. This made me bark with laughter. According to Susan Sontag’s teenage logic I’ve never had a proper boyfriend. In fact, I think the only man I ever dated who was taller than me was the Tall Tall Handsome Man (TTHM)* and he doesn’t count because he wasn’t sexually attracted to me.

My brain is a cloudy stew of height and dating. Sometime this week will mark the one-year anniversary of ending my last romantic relationship. I have a lot of shame around this relationship because I accepted a lot of shitty behavior from them.**

At some point, early on, I made up my mind I was gonna make this person THE ONE. I decided my ice robot heart had shit for brains and I was gonna do the opposite of all the things I usually do. Instead of fucking and running, I was gonna hold on for dear life. Through tenacity and determination I was gonna make this work because love is work. Right? RIGHT? God, I’m a dummy.

There’s a great line in BoJack Horseman about how when you wear rose-colored glasses all the red flags are just flags. I can’t even use the rose-colored glasses excuse. I chose to ignore all the flags because I really, really wanted to be in love. It was, of course, a lie, which is a little ironic because I broke up with them for being a lying liar with pants of fire. Also, I discovered for the first time in my life that being lonely in a relationship is roughly 930% worse than being lonely when you’re alone.

I should have known the first time we actually met. They told me they were also 6’5″ and I was pumped. When I got out of Ruby in the parking lot of a suburban St.Paul Coffee shop, I knew they’d lied to me. They were easily two inches shorter than I am.

Yikes! This one really got away from me. I’m already 800+ words in and I didn’t even get to the part about Nerve personal ads from the early aughts or the Liz Phair lyric or living in a body frequently fetishized by heterosexual men.

Here’s what I’ll say to wrap this up: I’m very glad I ended that relationship. Zero regrets. When I think about it I’m not so sad anymore, mostly I just shake my head at myself for being a giant dum-dum. Also in the most frigid depths of my ice robot heart I hope they still can’t listen to Jason Isbell without thinking of me. If there is any romantic justice in this world this will be true.

Sorry for blathering on,
Jodi

P.S. An update on the dad front: my mom got him to go to the emergency room last night. He was moved to the best hospital in the Twin Cities this morning. We have no idea what the prognosis is, but at least he’s not sitting at home waiting to die.

 
*Recently, a friend said he believes the TTHM is my soulmate. I disagreed. Loudly. Then I tried to murder him with my laser eyes. Then I realized, of course he thinks that. The TTHM was the last romantic relationship I wrote about here because of the creepy, mean, stalker lady. So he takes on a larger role in my romantic history than he really has.

 
**I feel shady & shitty using they/them pronouns. My ex is a trans-woman. For most of our relationship she presented as male. She came out to me eight months before the end of our relationship. Using he/him is wrong. Using she/her feels like I’m misrepresenting my sexuality and appropriating a queerness that doesn’t belong to me. Gender is hard. Sexuality is hard. I have a lot more to say about this at some point, but I’m still not ready.

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To Whom it May Concern:

It has recently come to our attention we are in need of a refresher on the procedures & policies that govern this organization.

We would like to direct you to the What & When portions of the About section. While you’re at it, you should listen to the song “I Will Dare” from which this website stole its name.

While you are encouraged to be sassy, opinionated, and argumentative, you cannot be abusive. What constitutes abuse is solely up to the discretion of the management. Being a first-time or long-time reader does not entitle you to be abusive.

In fact, we’re sorry to say, it entitles you to nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Zip. This website is free. It does not ask you to pay a subscription nor does it serve you advertisements. It solely exists for one woman to share her thoughts with the world.

Being a reader of this website also does not entitle you to dictate what is written on the website, nor when/if/in what manner the author chooses to share her life. She does not need to justify why she chooses to write about a subject on a certain day, though she frequently does because readers have been known to jump to conclusions, draw assumptions, cast aspersions, and the like.

In fact, one reader who was so bad at the internet she contacted the man the author was dating as well as one of the author’s friends to tell them the author was suicidal (based on the reader’s interpretation of blog posts) and ought to be committed. Because that one reader, twenty years ago, was so bad at the internet the author made the choice to not share her romantic life on this website until the romance was over. You have her to thank for never getting any salacious details.

The Management would also like to remind those whom it may concern that you are under no obligation to read every (or any) word written on this website. As far as we know, there is no law dictating reading of this website. This is not required reading for the SATs, the ACTs, the GREs, the LSAT, nor the MCAT. There will not be a pop quiz on the themes and symbolism of I Will Dare dot com at the gates of heaven should you arrive there. Maybe in Hell. We’re not sure.

We hope these clarifications enrich your experience of I Will Dare dot com. We will return you to your regularly scheduled programming once the author has had more than four hours of sleep.

If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to ask.

Thank you,
The Management of Supergenius, Inc.
Jodi Chromey, President
Wendell G. Hobbes, VP of Global Sales & Cuteness

P.S. I know you should not respond to critics, but I’ve been arguing with that comment every time I close my eyes. It’s why I failed at sleeping last night and instead cried while listening to “Midnight Organ Fight” until 4 a.m. I’m a little salty I have allowed this to take up so much of my time and emotional energy. Now that I’ve gotten it off my chest I’m really hoping I get to sleep tonight.

P.P.S. My community came out hard for me yesterday and that was wonderful, though I’m angry I needed it at all. It’s a kick in the teeth to be told nobody will ever love you while also being told you are shallow and talentless, even when it’s coming from someone you don’t like or respect. Anyway, I love you all. Thank you for reading and not being scary weirdos.

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