Mouse Droppings - The Front Page Blog

Why Now?

3/25/2026

There's a saying, "May the bridges I burn light the way." I thought it was profound and it certainly fit my life right now. But where was it from? I figured it was a passage from some epic bit of Attic literature or from something edgy and badass like "Game of Thrones" or part of a valedictory speech from someone ending their time as a coach or athlete for a team or school before moving on.

No. It was from Beverly Hills 90210.

So much for gravitas.

Years ago, I did a story for a content mill about a Pagan festival in Nashville. When it published, a handful of people sent me notes telling me I would never get back into the press box at Bridgestone doing stories like that. I sent most of them off with a shrug and a headpat. There were a few people who were told that it was a way to give my friends some media oxygen for their good work and the backlash was kind of the point. I wish I'd told them everything back then.

Would it have made a difference? Probably not. Some people have been curious and asked for names, dates, salacious details, and twenty-seven eight-by-ten glossy pictures with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one. None of that is really needed. The salacious details would be boring at best, especially in this twilight of the republic following the death of civility in public discourse. Those who were revealed, even if only by acts and words, cannot or will not talk about it. I'm fine with it and hope those who were upset at this revelation (and let's face it, it's never the people who need their jimmies rustled because they are pretty much the ones who are incapable of that kind of introspection) will eventually walk it off and go on with their days.

Having spoken my piece, I intend to do that as well. What's past is prologue (William Shakespeare's T"he Tempest.") One of my mentors from Big Giant Playwriting Incubation Thingie who has been with me as far back as my sportswriting days read all this and tried hard not to sound like a told me so, finger-wagging Yenta. He said I needed to take a lesson from Little Bossy Cat. When someone screws with her, she leaves deep marks. He instructed me that from here on out, I needed to do the same.

And so I shall.

I could say more, but why? I've made my point. Let the shenanigans begin.

Squeak!
Mouse

Hockey, Motherfuckers.

3/20/2026

Weebly, you used to hold things for me to come back and finish them. Now I come back to an empty page. Whiiiiiiy? Okay, truth is I know why. It's just me giving in to the need to whine this morning. So, let's do this.

Yes, I used the thirteen-letter grand poobah of naughty words in the hed. No, I did not misspell hed. After a fairly public crisis of faith, I need to clarify that I am still Christian. Jesus and I are still hanging in there. Jesus does not care if I type "motherfucker." Not that I intend to make it a habit. This is not borne of some revelation that came to me from a burning bush or a divinely delivered message through a dream. A co-religionist muttered a shorter version of that word online after we all learned of an unprovoked act of brutality that took a life.

Until that moment, I felt very alone. As a Christian, I had started to color outside of the lines. My spiritual practice was veering into Merton territory. The heart of it was still in the middle of the Abrahamic Triad, but the day-to-day, minute-to-minute, breath-to-breath reality was synthesis-a-go-go. 'Scuse me for a moment. I need to pause before I hyphenventilate.

In the midst of all of this, an editor saw some things I wrote and made me a well-intentioned offer he thought I couldn't refuse. Okay, I know this was a mix of good intentions and an ulterior motive that would be answered. How do I put this? This guy hates Nashville. He hates Nashville fans. For years, he read what I wrote about Nashville hockey and it made it bearable to him the same way people who hate magic shows love Penn and Teller.

To him and everyone else in my corner of the world, this was something a lot of people might see as a cause for me to celebrate. My reaction was pretty much the opposite. What is the expression internet people use these days? I crashed out at the thought of long days spent walking around rinks and arenas by myself, feeling bullied and excluded by my peers and harassed by people who had no reason to do so and nothing to fear from me personally or professionally. At the time, any mention of this was met with the response that I was the problem and I needed be friendlier and at the same time leather up. While I met some good people and made some friends, overall, it wasn't the happiest year of my life.

There was one other elephant in the room: The people I allowed to make me feel this way were, with one exception, professing Christians who made this a big part of their public identities. It was hard to take then, it is hard to take now. I could not, would not go back and try so hard to put a happy face on everything.

There's one more thing I need to bring up and I know I have brought it up before. I started using a pen name because the first few years out of college, I worked with tweens and teens who had been sexually abused. Seeing my legal name might trigger former patients. I am also a survivor of sexual violence. I have seen what those children carry and know what I have had to do to move on. Want to sit behind me in the bowl at Bridgestone and talk about how women really want to be fucked from behind while someone held a gun in their mouth? Netstazlk and threaten me because you didn't agree with my religion or politics, neither of which I never mentioned at work? Want to act like a middle school kid to impress your celebrity friends? Laugh when I was groped by intoxicated fans on a photographers perch the night my usual cohort was away shooting at another event? It's not funny. None of that was okay. I thought I'd put it all behind me and yet those were the memories that came back. So when I got that offer and really thought about it, I got ill.

I told my Nashville-hating friend, "no" and he would not take that for an answer. I told him to find someone else and then send the letter he needed to send to the media coordinator to get them credentialed. He wants me to wait until rookie camp and then give him an answer. My out is that the organization might say no anyway, which is fine with me. It's probably fine with him because he has an excuse to use AP feeds if he wants to cover the team. Writing this will hopefully get him to see that this isn't me being a brat. Aside from finally getting it all out there, it is to let him know there are very good reasons for me to write from home if at all. It is also a wakeup call to listen more and support people when they tell you something is wrong. Most important of all, in admitting this happened, it takes away the feeling that I failed.

At this point, I'll keep on writing. I'll keep on creating. This is where and when I walk past what hurt me and those where were okay with it. It is where I admit I was not okay with what happened and for a little while, I will allow myself to be okay with not being okay. Well, okay then.

Squeak!
Mouse

Waking Up And Smelling The Coffee

3/5/2026

So a lot can happen in a week. Eyes can open and I can see the way things are versus the way I was taught things would be. When I feel like it, I'll write more, catch the site up on what has happened and come to some decisions. For now, there is the name change and the me that has to figure who I am now that I know I was never destined to be one of those shiny happy people I was encouraging everyone else to be. For that, I apologize.

Squeak!
Mouse

The Same River Twice

2/18/2026

Heraclitus once said, «Κανένας άνθρωπος δεν πατάει ποτέ στο ίδιο ποτάμι δύο φορές, γιατί δεν είναι το ίδιο ποτάμι και δεν είναι ο ίδιος άνθρωπος.»* Let me try that again: "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he's not the same man."**

That saying has been rattling around in my head for the past few days. An outlet offered to get me credentialed. After thinking about it, the appropriate answer seems to be, "No." I'm overhauling my studio, contemplating another degree, writing a book, considering a possible arts internship, writing a play, and resolving to have more fun. Did I mention I have a cello, a sword for Tai Chi and more drums than an adult should own? Yeah, there's that. No. YOU grow up!

Writing about hockey is fun again. I'm taking the Olympic break to think about this. Sitting in the best seat ever with a lap full of smolcat who watches the puck is far more conducive to having things to say than having to duck into the Zamboni hut just to get warm enough to operate my camera. Also, no bullies, no gropers, no idiot freak stalkers who threatened to have me removed because they didn't like my politics or religion. Since going into the ministry is still on the table, I won't employ the language a former player used when I explained why I didn't want to go back.

"Is it really going back? Things change." This is from a colleague. He's being all wise and making sense and he needs to stop. I remind him that Saint Hunter S. Thompson held out for a Sunday Ticket subscription to cover NFL late in his career. He barely wrote a word about football.

I would be under no such constraints. My streaming sub affords me oodles of sports and if I decide to get all twee and cover, say, cricket, it's there. There's the added feature of all the Marvel and Star Wars material I could ever want to see and Only Murders in the Building. Better living through recreational chemicals is not a want or need. Droids and SportsCenter? Let's talk.

I might also decide one week to write about music. Or gnocchi. Life is short. Take the cannoli.

Squeak!
Churchmouse

*Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's modern Greek. I don't have the font or the patience to parse it out in the Classical Greek I learned at -say it with me- Memphis State University. Dad used to say I learned more creative ways to waste time at MSU.

**And another thing. I thought this was from Confucius.  没有人会两次踏入同一条河,因为不是同一条河,他们不是同一个人。

1. Don't be impressed. I used Google Translate.

God Give Me Patience, NOW!

2/12/2026

The past few days, I've been wobbly, sleep deprived, and not very nice. Attempts at trying to pat down my raised neck ruff were met with growls. Depending on who you ask, they might have been cute growls. Rodents are not known for being particularly imposing when we're put out.

My late, lamented guinea pig, Minnie the Guinea Queen of the Sows, was a growler who was a fierce legend in her own tiny little head. One afternoon the family dog, a Great Dane who was not known for cerebral wattage, noticed there was a small furry loaf in the cage in my room. He stuck his nose against the wires, Minnie growled and then clamped down on him through the bars. The poor dog didn't know what to make of any of it. He looked over at me as if to say, "Please get this mean biscuit offa mah nose!" I gently removed Miss Piggy, who waggled her tiny feet and let me know how offended she was as the poor pup ran to another part of the house where weird decor wouldn't bite him.

So I was emitting similar rodent-like grumbling and occasionally squeaking at offenders. I should have been minding my manners, but no. Offended and inconvenienced me had to let the world know I was offended and inconvenienced. You'd think I was raised in a barn.

Yesterday I met my new endocrinologist. She. listened. She got me. I feel like we're moving forward and I'm a little more at home in my body, something I have been trying to achieve for the last six years. My A1C is down five points from what it was in November. Numbers are moving the right direction. I'm not there yet, but all signs point to me getting healthier.

I don't deserve any of this.

This especially true becausr I keep sending these pestering prayers: "Why am I here? What is my purpose? No place inthis world u is evident. If I'm continuing to live, what do you want me to do, God?

What I'm missing is the hrace I am being shown. What God is modelng to me is what I should be extending to others. It's a hard, mean world right now is a pretty accurate assessment of the state of things. Using that as an excuse for closing my heart and mind is a copout.

What does God want me to do? It's right there in black and white (or maybe red depending on your Bible.)

I give you a new commandment: Love each other . Just as I have loved you, so you also must love each other. This is how everyone will know you are my disciples, when you love each other.
John 13: 34-35

There it is. My mission for right now should I choose to accept it. Time to sign off and go into the world, this tinme with a greater purpose.

Squeak!
Churchmouse

Confessions of an Ugly Female

2/9/2026

All of us have those pieces of advice we tell ourselves we will always follow... util we don't. Last night was one of those times I should have listened to my own advice about reliving the past, especially memories that aren't so good.

Here's the thing, when I was a kid, if someone said something demeaning to me, I would try to soldier past it. The problem was even though I knew I was under no obligation to care what anyone thought of me, their words, sometimes the memories of their words and actions cause an avalanche of memories of other times when I felt nothing I did could overcome my face. If I can put the brakes on, it might stop at the guy I encountered last year who asked the nurse standing with me at one of the walkways at VUMC if she was "walking the dog." Maybe I can skid to a stop at working on my invisibility skills when I was a credentialed reporter at Bridgestone. If I don't get on top of it, there are the boys who used to follow me down the hall at Antioch High School screaming "Kill the monster!" and sometimes all the way back to fifth grade when I was told I couldn't sit at the girls' art table because I was too ugly and had to go sit by myself. I know all of this is stupid.

As petty as any of this may sound, the result is I feel sick and tense and my response is to try to distract myself with mental noise and deep breathing. Right now, I am reading Christian mystics (The Cloud of Unknowing by Anonymous and Revelations of Divine Love by Julian of Norwich) and teaching myself music theory, German, and Cherokee. I used to think this was an attempt to escape what other people say and do. I realized last night when I felt all of those incidents and more come tumbling out of my anxiety closet,* that it was a way to escape the ugly little girl grown into the ugly woman I see in the mirror.

My agent is on to me. She has asked me to get a professional head shot. So far, I have been able to put her off for six years. She is very patient. This may be because I'm funny. Being a good writer and artist can aid in the forgiveness of sins up to a point. I have offered to take a picture of my cat or hire a model to pretend to be me. She's not having it.

I just had to do a few minutes of deep breathing. I'm better now.

In the grand scheme of things, struggling with being that ugly person you ridicule to make your friends laugh seems like a first world problem. Nobody has an obligation to carry the weight of how their words and actions make me feel. That's on me. It can serve as a reminder to use my powers for good and ask people to be kind. Still, there's the fact that beyond my bubble of life, it seems like we've gotten meaner. Maybe if we can learn to be kind about the little stuff, solutions to some of our bigger problems would come into view.

It's Monday. Time to leather up and deal. Everybody have a good one!

Squeak!
Churchmouse

*Stick taps to Berke Breathed and Milo for that one.

one.

It's Thursday Already And One Day To The Winter Olympics

2/5/2026

I meant to finish a writeup of last night's DET@UTA match. I will do that later today. Getting my sports chops back feels good. However, a conversation with MouseMom made me realize the need to address a serious issue that has been weighing on a lot of good people.

The essay is called "The Kids Are Not Alright." It comes from decades of working with kids in crisis. Sometimes we forget our grownup problems filter down to the very people we sometimes try to shield from life's harsh realities. This serves as a reminder that the images and discourse are sometimes as inescapable to them as it is to us.

So What Do We Do Now?

1/28/2026

Teach. Preach. Model love in the face of so much ugliness.

When 9/11 happened, I volunteered with the local chapter of the Red Cross. My reasoning was that I didn't want my nephew to come to me at some point in the future and ask what I did when America was under attack. I was 38 at the time and too old and out of shape to consider a military career. Being a wimp didn't help. either.

Volunteer orientation was packed and offered some unintentonally funny moments. The Red Cross Wonk Lady who addressed us at first looked around the room and said something she'd obviously been saying over and over for the past two weeks:

"I am glad everyone wants to help and we all feel a lot of things about the attack on The World Trade Center. You need to know that we will not be sending volunteers to New York. They have enough people who are trained to handle this kind of emergency. You will be working in the Nashville area, most likely on blood drives."

Around the room, there were a few people groaning. Helping at home was fine with me. I'd evolved into a to-the-bone homebody, so I was happy to not go to New York.

Red Cross Wonk Lady continued:

"I'm sorry if that is disappointing news to some of you. If you don't think this a fit, you can go with no judgement from us."

At that point, a Lithe Young Thing wearing a gauzy shift stood up and waved her hand.

"Excuse me." She took a deep breath and looked mournfully at Red Cross Wonk Lady. "I HAVE to go to New York! just have to!"

Red Cross Wonk Lady's lips parted. We all saw she was forming the question we were asking ourselves. Before she could say it, the Lithe Young Thing continued, this time louder and with more emphasis:

"YOU HAVE TO SEND ME TO NEW YORK!" Pause. "I'm an actress!"

Red Cross Wonk Lady did not respond. She simply looked through the Lithe Young Thing and continued with her presentation. Lithe Young Thing stood there, stunned that her passion did not move them to load her precious self on a plane full of artists, dancers, and playwrights hellbent on saving New York. There's a part of me that is hoping she's looking back on this and cringing and another, kinder part of my id that hopes she's forgotten this.

I bring this up because it's a good bet there are people begging anyone who will listen to send them to Minneapolis. * You know, it is just as meaningful to let Minneapolis know we stand with them here in Nashville. It is also meaningful to both literally and figuratively carry water for the next generation. This may sound weird coming from someone who grew up in a white suburban family, but my parents taught me about The Black Panthers. They took me to Centennial Park to see Africanist and Latin drum ensembles. The taught me about my own family and our sometimes problematic forebears. Slave owners and Christian fundie abolitionists sometimes shared branches of my family tree. A cousin by marriage used his fame to work to make East Tennessee literate. (Cousin Alvin, you would have adored Miz Dolly!)**

There is something just as sacred and serves as much of an act of social justice to pass on a love of learning and a desire to continue our traditions to our children. We need to act as guardians of our language, our stories, our history, our music. our food, our art, our crafts, our gestures, our dance, our beliefs...all of it is there for us to learn from. We need to ask Auntie about that special sweet potto pie, or what it was like when people can home from the war, who ate squirrel brains and eggs and how mean was that old horse in the back forty? and how neighbors came to each other's aid. We can't afford to lose any of this. What we sometimes forget is those stories were sometimes useful teaching tools. It's all important and it is its own form of resistance in a world where education is being pithed of its importance. Nurturing creation is also an act of caring.

Resistance can be found in acts that foment peace and deeds that are done in love.

*A few years later, I did travel coordination for Katrina and Rita relief. Gurl, I got stories!
**When I took a job working at an inpatient psychiatric trauma unit, my mother told me I was continuing a grand family tradition of working with the certifiable. My great-great-great grandfather rode with General Hood, an uncle served under Patton, and there I was working in a psych unit.

Mad World

1/16/2026

Yesterday, one of my clients asked me if I thought life would get back to normal, and if so, when. Not sure what to tell her. For what it's worth, I've been hearing this question since the COVID shutdowns in 2021. People are desperate for things to get back to some semblance of safe and quiet. Our minds and bodies tell us we need this, while each news cycle reveals a world that gets scarier by the minute.

Folks mostly come in three flavors: Smug Sore Winners, Apathetic, and Outraged. The first of the three can't wait to storm some illusory castle they see as rightfully theirs. Stepping on the necks of people they see as in their way is just gravy. The middle group isn't just trying to keep the home fires burning. They want to pretend nothing out of the ordinary is happening and as long as they are holding their hands over their ears and chanting, "La! La! La! La! La!"

The final group is the Outraged. I get why they feel that way. To see people raging at each other because someone told them to when they have far more in common with the people they hate than the people they listen to is tragic. The violence that is fomenting on both sides makes some of feel sick and sad for our people.

There's a part of me that wants to go to Minnesota if it secedes, but not to live in Minneapolis or St. Paul. I want to go to Lake Woebegone where the biggest news might be the discovery of recipe theft at the Lutheran pot lucks. That's right. Lena knows something and she's not talking! I know it's not a real place. Same goes for The Village of Nothing Much and Dog River. When my friends' older kids tell me they wish they could live in those places and they're serious, I know we need to do better for them and the young'uns they're going to bring into this world.

Happy New Year!

1/1/2026

It's been a minute.

I've been...pouting. No. Really, I, uh-

I've been pouting.

When I got out of the hospital on December 31st, 2020, everyone around me said the same thing: "God didn't bring you this far just to drop you on your keister."

Fair enough.

My prayer life from then on consisted of me waiting for signs. I watched doors open and shut, reminding myself that sometimes what we see is not what we are destined to take on. Was I supposed to go back into pediatric psych care? Law? I knew family, marriage, and love were off the table. God had been telling me no to that for years. Was I supposed to be a minister? Insane, unreasonable avenues presented themselves and some went away when I started to examine the details, and then there were others that I knew were not the right thing.

"Look!" God says, "I did a thing!" (Isaiah 43: 19) Unlike when Jeremy Clarkson says that, one has to look and see why God wants us to note His new thing. What I saw was a clearer view of how I was blessed. I have a studio, music, and a body of photographic work that has become the stepstool to move me to the next part of my life.

I have also found peace and a greater degree of discernment. Forgiving and then walking away from people who need to leave me alone and find their own joy was one part of it. Learning to narrow down that focus and lose the almost comically desperate need to be seen is another part of this. Setting my own boundaries and definitions for what connects me to that which is bigger than me could never happen at seminary or divinity school. I know that now. And to my friends who never left and a few who have found common sources of joy: Thank you falettin' me be mice elf agin!

Even though I know as 2026 progresses, things are gonna get loud and crowded at times, God also revealed that life is good when I am sitting in an overstuffed chair cuddling my cat bestie or reading a good book.

Some things I am looking forward to in 2026:
Ovechkin setting records.
Exploring new ways to move.
Reading.
More sushi!
Getting my studio in order.
Going back to school.
The best garden ever!
Fingers crossed I have a treatment team that will help me stay well.

There are other things I haven't listed. Maybe I'll write about them later on. Until then, I hope everyone who sees this is prepared to have a great 2026!

XOXOXO
Warrior Churchmouse, MouseMom, and Marigold the BossyCat

Copyright 2007 - 2026

Legal stuff to make you very sleepy (binaural beats not included.)

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