Donna Ison's Blog

ADVICE TO MY 13-YEAR-OLD SELF

Advice to My 13-Year-Old Self

Choose Wisely: A Cautionary Christmas Tale

Trigger Warning: If you have any triggers...literally any...then stop reading.  [image error]
A brand new toy. This year, for Christmas, Olivia was going to get a brand, new toy. Not a board game from Goodwill with one of the die missing, or a yard sale doll with crayon marks on her legs, or a hand-me-down scooter from a well-to-do child from church—but, a brand, new toy.

This year, her mother had received a two-hundred-dollar bonus from one of the women whose houses she cleaned. So, she could afford to pay the electric bill and buy one present each for Olivia and her two older brothers. There would even be enough left over for a Christmas meal with meat. So, they all piled into the Ford Fiesta and headed to the Bargain Barn.

Upon stepping inside, they were greeted by a giant tree twinkling with multicolored lights and “Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer” being piped through the intercom system. Olivia bounced on her toes unable to contain her excitement.

“Ready to pick a present?” her mother asked. The twins were already halfway to the electronics department, but Olivia gave a bold nod. Her mother bent down and kissed her on the forehead leaving lipstick. She licked her thumb and wiped off the pink smudge, then offered two words of advice, “Choose wisely.”

Olivia ran straight to the aisle housing the stuffed animals. She rifled through the fluffy bunnies and exotic elephants and sad-eyed puppies. Then, there it was, in all its black and white cuddliness—a plush panda, the toy of her dreams. Just as she was about to pull it from the shelf, she found herself drawn instead to the dolphin next to it. It was as if it were saying, “Pick me. You must pick me.” And, so she did.

Olivia scooped up the dolphin and ran to her mother. “I want this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Olivia said, though her heart still yearned for the panda.

That night, Olivia drifted off to sleep with the dolphin hugged tight to her chest. The following morning, she bolted up with a scream. Deep scratches covered her arms, legs, and torso. She wanted to run to her mother, but a voice insisted, “Don’t tell.” So, instead, Olivia made sure to keep her sleeves pulled down over her wrists and avoid hugs.
​
But, come bedtime, her mother insisted on a squeeze before tucking her into bed with the dolphin nestled beside her. “Sweet dreams,” her mother whispered, and crept from the room.  
The violent visions began almost immediately.

First, Olivia was trapped in a burning school bus, engulfed in flames and the anguished screams of her classmates. Everywhere, children with scorched skin and flaming flesh. She could feel the meat begin to melt from her own body, dripping onto the floorboard.

Next, she was running down an alley being chased by the neighbor’s dogs—three large beasts, heavily muscled, of indistinguishable origin. Hackles raised. They close in. She stumbles. She falls. They are upon her. Teeth rip. Teeth shred. Teeth sink to the bone.

Then, she was buried alive. The earth closing in. Can’t breathe. Banging on the lid. Pushing against the sides. Can’t breathe. Clawing at the boards. Fingernails breaking. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

Just before dawn came the worst of all. Hands on her body. A stranger’s hands. Sweaty hands. Rough hands. Hands in places they did not belong. Kneading. Prodding. Impaling.
​
Olivia awoke exhausted and drenched in sweat. It was Christmas Eve, so they were going to visit her grandmother in the nursing home.

“Don’t you want to take your dolphin to show her?” Olivia’s mother asked.         
“No,” she answered, without hesitation.

That night, when Olivia went to bed, the dolphin was already lying on the pillow. She wanted to push it away, shove it underneath, or hide it in the closet…but she just couldn’t. So, instead, she snuggled it in close and sent up a desperate prayer, in vain.

On Christmas morn, Olivia didn’t wake at all.

The demon who had inhabited the stuffed toy was pleased with his work. He found the sobs of her mother especially rewarding. But, he was left with a dilemma—whose possession should he next possess?

Hold on to Your Humanity

[image error]

I Don't Like Puppies...Especially My Own

So, last Friday, I got a new puppy. You say, “That’s impossible. I didn’t get a text. There was no Facebook status. I haven’t seen one Instagram photo--and your cats even have their own account.” None the less, I got a puppy…and I do not like him one bit.

I realize saying this will get me more backlash than insulting a veteran or making a dead baby joke, but I'm saying it anyway. I don’t really like my new puppy. So, maybe, that's a little strong. I just don't have any deep, warm, fuzzy feelings for him. There's no connection. 

Of course, this is not his fault. He is being as good as a puppy can be…which is why I initially chose him. While the other puppies were nipping, whining, and being rowdy, he was calm and attentive, almost polite. But, on the car ride home from the Humane Society, a feeling of emptiness washed over me, and I thought, “Why on earth did I just do that? Why did I think we needed a dog? Why this dog?”
​
I wanted to turn around and take him back—only guilt and the fear of ridicule kept me from it. So, I brought him home, instead. And, I have regretted it every minute since, even though he is still calm, getting along fine with the cats, and on the way to being housebroken.

Apparently, this is not uncommon and is called the “Puppy Blues.” Articles, blogs, and forums are all over the internet. I read through dozens last night at 3AM, while he howled in his crate. Puppy Blues is the depression that follows bringing home a new puppy that you don’t immediately bond with. It involves feeling overwhelmed, disappointed, panicked, and ashamed, because what kind of monster doesn’t feel any warmth for their own puppy. For me, it has involved much, much crying. I never imagined I could or would feel this way.

All the experts gave the same advice—just wait. That one day, the puppy will be a dog and he will be your best friend and you won’t be able to imagine life without him. In the interim, I guess you just feel sad, confused, hopeless, and filled with remorse. Of course, I am trying to be a “good” dog owner. I am being patient and kind—no punishment, all praise. He has a spacious crate in my bedroom with a comfy bed and chew safe toys. He has a second bed in the TV room with plush pals and interactive toys. He has food that is more nutritionally sound that what I eat. The one thing he doesn’t have is a name. I’ll get to that later.

But first, self-psychoanalysis on what the hell is happening.With the only exceptions being kittens and kids (as in baby goats), I don’t have a particular affinity for anything in baby form. This includes humans, giraffes, lambkins, llamas, hatchlings, hippos…and puppies. I like creatures fully-formed with distinctive physical characteristics, personalities, and some level of independence. I like dogs. So, why did I opt for a puppy instead of an adult or senior in need of a home? Because I have two cats that I adore and was afraid to bring a full-grown dog into their domain. I thought a puppy would be less intimidating and become part of their pride. Also, I wanted to make certain to raise a fully socialized dog, who could adapt to lots of visitors, both human and canine, traveling, and lake life.                                                                                                           Also, apparently, when it comes to dogs, I have a type. When it comes to men, I never had a type. I’ve been seriously involved with artists, athletes, computer geeks, manly men, metrosexuals, punk rockers, an accountant, actors—all of different ages, races, religious-affiliations, socioeconomic backgrounds…and, now, I have a Frank. But, with dogs, I like large, dark, fluffy, interesting dogs. Instead, I got a medium breed, short-haired, pale hound. I can’t explain it, but he doesn’t even look like a dog to me, which is why I can’t come up with a name. I wanted an Ernest Hemmingway and adopted an F. Scott Fitzgerald. I have two explanations for this. First, I have been visiting websites and shelters for weeks and hadn't found any dog that remotely fit those specifications, so I took that as a sign. Two, I thought that if I got a dog who was the opposite of Doc Grizzly (my soulmate in fur form), I wouldn’t be as tempted to compare them. This leads to the real source of my current dilemma.                                                                                                  After losing Doc Grizzly, I haven’t finished mourning. I am just not ready for another dog. And, I may not ever be. Doc came into my life when I desperately needed exactly what he had to offer—protection, a sense of safety, companionship, and unconditional love. The bond was immediate and the deepest I have ever felt with another living creature. I loved everything about him—his demeanor, his mountain man appearance, his smile, his steady gait and steady disposition, his intelligence, and his devotion. We had 13 wonderful years together. That cannot be replaced and it is unfair to expect this puppy to do so. My biggest fear is that I am not a dog person: I was just a Doc person.  
So, what am I going to do? I have no fucking clue. I love animals and never thought I would be someone who would consider returning a perfectly good dog to a shelter. But, I know if I am going to do so, I need to do it now, so he can get the home he deserves. And, I need to vow NEVER to bring home another dog that could meet the same fate.

Or, I could trust in the power of the human/canine connection and continue giving him the best care I can. I can hope that I can muster enough love until he is a fully-formed dog. I can try to accept that there will never be another Doc. That he was the perfect dog for me then…and perhaps this is the perfect dog for me now.

Maybe I can become the transformed Mean Gandfather to his Heidi...the Scrooge to Tiny Tim...as long as I don't become the Cruella Deville to his Dalmation. 

So, if I keep him, I suppose I’ll need a name. I’m open to suggestions. ​ [image error]

To My Sixteen-Year-Old SELF

For International Day of the Girl, I give you the words I wish someone had given to me.

Feed your brain, follow your heart, trust your gut.Seek out strong women. Value their company and opinions.Do not ever apologize for taking up too much space in the universe. Keep expanding and your world will expand with you.There is nothing wrong with staying home alone on a Saturday night, especially when you learn to love your own company.Blame and shame are two sides of a cancerous coin; both will eat you up inside.Boys are great, they’re just not everything.You are worthy…worthy of love, respect, success, health, and happiness. You are worthy because you are here. You are here because you are worthy. Simple as that. 

Mean Girls

[image error] A poem in honor of National Mean Girls Day...

Mean Girls
by: Donna Ison

She bled out sugar, spice, and everything nice, 
During her first menstruation at 7th grade graduation.
It was replaced with venom and a sense of superiority,
Soon she amassed a likeminded sorority,
And began her reign of terror over Mountain View Junior High.

Day after day, she sought out her prey,
A ruthless seeker of those who were weaker. 
With her fawning followers trailing behind,
She trolled the hallways eager to find, 
Someone on which to unleash her wrath. 

While her classmates swilled beers, she got drunk on tears.
Others pain was her cocaine. 
Her energy was poured into one master scheme, 
To transform herself into every boy’s dream, 
And every girl’s nightmare.

Year after year, she ruled with fear.
Her sadistic streak grew, even when high school was through.   
In college, she determined that to gain clout, 
She need only play on other’s self-doubt.
And point out their every flaw in the name of sisterly concern.  

Later, she used technological innovation to perpetrate devastation.
Without any trepidation, she would ruin a reputation.
The workplace just served as a fluorescent-lit lab.
For her to experiment with new ways to torture and backstab.
Mean girls, if left unchecked, become mean women.         

She even became so bold, as to wear a cross of gold.
Painted herself the picture of pious and pure, devoted and demure.
But no amount of make-up could disguise or erase,
The hatred that lurked behind her glommed-on face.
And, even silicone implants couldn’t hide a heart that dark. 

Years passed...
Rather than admit defeat, and that cruelty had grown obsolete.
She tormented others for torments sake, leaving heartbreak in her wake.
Instead of learning that to be strong, you must be kind.
She chose to remain bitter and blind.
All the while convincing herself that she’d rather be feared than loved.

On her deathbed, she sneered and said, 
“Doc, with those looks, I see why you buried your head in books.”
She remained a mean girl until the ugly end.
And died without having one true female friend.

Imagine her surprise when she found out God was a woman.

Censorship, Feminism, and Abortion in Kentucky

Sometimes you do not choose the fight; the fight chooses you. This fight is about censorship and abortion. Recently, I was asked to write to script for a production, which promised to be “a celebration, education, and exploration of the female voice in Kentucky.” Upon submitting the piece, a musical parody highlighting the issues and inequalities that women have been facing from 1988 to present, I was told “the powers that be” would not allow the use of the word “abortion.” I was asked to remove it. I refused and retracted the script.
 
I was also slated to be the headliner at the Friday evening slam poetry event, but again was told my piece, “Three Minutes,” was too divisive. The poem focuses on the myriad of thoughts going through a woman’s mind between taking a pregnancy test and finding out the results. I was given the option to perform a less controversial piece. I refused and bowed out.
 
But, I could not ignore the irony of an event that promised to promote the voices of Kentucky women while silencing them from behind the scenes. I could not sit by while audiences assumed that since the topic of abortion was not broached, during the production, it was simply of no concern for women in our state. So, I decided speak out.
 
With recent legislation and the looming threat that ours may be the first state in the country without access to safe and legal terminations, the topic of abortion in Kentucky is being discussed nationwide. News organizations, including CNN, USA Today, the LA Times, Newsweek, and even Britain’s The Daily Telegraph, have all recently published or broadcast stories speculating the consequences. If this can be a topic of national conversation, surely it is irresponsible to not include it in a dialogue focused on women, here at home.
 
I am also greatly concerned about the message that is being conveyed. In deeming the word so ugly and shameful that it cannot even be spoken on stage, this organization is placing judgement on every woman who has ever made the difficult decision to have an abortion. I am one of those women. If the word is so taboo that it must be relegated to a shadowy and silent corner, then in what sort of dark and dangerous alleys will the actual procedure be forced to take place?
 
And, regardless of which word you are asking me to omit, censorship imposed on anyone is alarming. For an artist, it is cause for revolt. This week, we’ll be asked not to use the word abortion. Next week, we’ll be told we can’t include transgender.
Then, they take away libertarian. Next, feminist may be banned, or revolution, or Buddha…or Muhammad…or God. Before we know it, our vocabularies have been reduced to a few innocuous words with no impact, and our ability to fully express our beliefs is gone. This is the beginning of the end of freedom.  
 
Still, writing this was one of the more difficult things I’ve done. I greatly respect many of the women involved in this project and the past work they’ve produced. I know they are under a great deal of pressure from the “powers that be” to not offend or ostracize certain members of the community. However, as an activist artist, it is not my job to change for the “powers that be”—it is my job to change the “powers that be.”
 
And, as a feminist, I believe that women—all women—have the right to choose. If you opt to give your child up for adoption, I respect that decision. If you know that an abortion is right for you, I respect that decision. And, if you decide to have a family of ten, I respect that decision. All these choices are worthy of discussion, which cannot happen without using certain words.
 
When talking about why women—strong, capable, smart women—tolerate less than acceptable behavior and do not demand basic rights, it often comes back to the deeply ingrained teaching that girls must “play nice.” We, women, often choose being attractive and accepted over being represented and respected. I, too, have been guilty, but no longer. Now, I know lasting change and true equality will only come when every one of us stands up and speaks out for what is right in every instance, every time. Every woman, every instance, every time. 

2018 - The Year of the Broad

[image error] Dear Broads,

I think we can all agree, this has been one hell of a year and has taken its toll on the best of us. Over these past few months, I have come close to losing my Broad status. With Broad being an acronym for Bold, Resilient, Open-minded, Audacious, and Determined, I have only consistently upheld one of these qualities—resilient. I’m still here.

But, I have not been bold or audacious—by choice. In the past, I would say or write exactly what I wanted without any regard for who it might offend or whose feelings might get wounded. As an artist, I felt it was my job to push the limits, speak the unspeakable, and cause discomfort—at the least—outrage, at the best. Now, I feel our nation is a constant state of angst and aggravation, and I haven’t wanted to add to that just for the sake of getting a laugh or raising eyebrows. I felt the need to use my words to unify...but had no idea how to do this. So, I stayed silent. Big mistake.
​
Also, I no longer consider myself open-minded. There are certain people’s opinions that I have absolutely no interest in hearing. If someone votes and spends their money in ways that promote rampant gun possession, the objectification of women, greed, racism, isolationism, bullying, or any sort of cruelty, then I don’t give a fuck what they have to say. Frankly, I don’t want this toxic rhetoric to fill the same air that I breathe.

Moving on…determined requires a solid, forward focus. Over the past few months, I have been all over the board with my thoughts and actions: unfocused, often overwhelmed, and sometimes downright paralyzed.

So, for me, I either had to give up being a Broad or redefine what the word means to me. I chose to reinvent myself as a Broad 2.0: Balanced-Real-Outspoken-Audacious-Deliberate. I challenge each of you to define Broad for yourself in a way that works for your life…right here, right now. I’m certain I will reinvent, revamp, and rejuvenate the word on a regular basis, but evolution is the key to survival.
Speaking of survival, I think for this group to not only survive, but thrive, we need to do some reinventing of our own. I initially saw this community as a platform, a stage for speaking out. Now, I also see it as a source. A source of support, resources, knowledge, exploration, contacts, and a wealth of other things.

In these dark days, I think we should all embrace the concept that “Living well is the best revenge.” So, I want us to use this page and our community as a place to ask for assistance, offer expertise, find first-hand information, network, and seek whatever it is you need to succeed.

Whether you just need help from the hive mind, a sounding board on which to bounce ideas, an expert to teach you a new skill, or a a shoulder to cry on, ask. On the other hand, if you have an area of expertise, life hacks, leisure time, or resources you want to share, offer. 

Let’s get our revenge by becoming our best and making our wildest dreams come true, together. Let’s use this community to help each other start podcasts, run for political office, cook real food, change our own oil, forge friendships, gain body confidence, form a forum, produce a play, build a tiny house, do stand-up comedy, set-up a support group, grow a garden, invest for retirement, write books, perform burlesque, speak other languages, go to grad school. Bake vegan cupcakes, learn self-defense, lift weights, identify poisonous spiders, climb mountains, start a business…all of it.

I’ll start. What can I offer? This March, I’ll offer a self-publishing workshop. If you’ve ever wanted to publish a book, but don’t where to start, I’ll walk you through every step from formatting, editing, blurbage, cover art. and marketing.

So, let’s do this. Let’s help each other make our lives bigger…better…Broadier!

Here’s to the Good Life,
Donna

Bluegrass in a Bowl Bourbon Punch

For months, I have been toiling away trying to create the perfect bourbon punch for the holidays. It has involved much trial and error, each batch demanding to be tasted again and again and again. Now, after consuming quarts…maybe even gallons…of booze in the pursuit of giving you the perfect potent potable, I have finally captured the essence of Kentucky in liquid form. Just in time for New Year's Eve, I humbly offer you my Bluegrass in a Bowl Bourbon punch. ​ [image error] Ingredients
2 64oz bottles of cranberry-pomegranate juice
4-6 cups bourbon (depending on just how festive you're feeling)
6 cans of Ale-8-one
3 limes
4 ice trays
1 punch bowl

InstructionsThe night before, freeze one carton of cranberry-pomegranate juice in ice trays.In punchbowl, add cubes, juice, bourbon, Ale-8, and juice of one lime.Slice other limes and garnish. 
Cheers, ya'll!