fur coats, reminders, and my personal version of fact vs. fiction

Fiction: You can "simply decide" to "be happy".

 

Fact: You can make conscious choices to be a better version of yourself, but these changes will take time.

 

While you can decide to change elements of your thinking, (trying to focus on the positive, mentally letting go of things, etc.) it's just not possible to sit down in front of a mirror, look yourself square in the eye, and declare that FROM THIS MOMENT ON, you will be unwaveringly and completely happy. First off, no one is 100% happy 100% of the time. Secondly, while your brain is pretty effing awesome, there is no switch to automatically control emotions. Immediate happiness isn't a thing, guys, and expecting magical results and not receiving them will only make you sad...which, in case you didn't know, is sort of the polar opposite of happy. You can't expect yourself to become an entirely new person overnight. You're not the inside of a junky house; you can't just slap on some paint, clean the windows, gut the basement, and be instantly perfect. Cut yourself some slack, gorgeous.

 

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Fiction: You have to wait for a sign to start doing something you love.

 

Fact: If you know you love something enough to want to do it, THAT IS YOUR SIGN.

 

Whole-heartedly wanting to do something is all the proof from God/the Universe/your mother that you ever need. I know I've talked about this idea of doing exactly what you want to do simply because you want to do it, but I'll repeat myself until I'm blue in the face. YOU BEING YOU is the only reason necessary to kick life in the nards. Or cut all your hair off. Or switch careers. Or flirt shamelessly with the sexy barista at the coffee shop you go to that's cuter than Starbucks, but doesn't have chai quite as good.

 

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Fiction: Love is never having to say you're sorry.

 

Fact: What? I just. What? I'm pretty sure love is caring enough about the other person and how they feel to apologize when you're a jerk.

 

And we're all jerks, sometime or other. If I cancel on friends, (or my loverrrr in the night-times), I do appreciate a certain level of understanding because they like me, but that doesn't mean I don't offer a genuine sorry. Just because someone loves you inside and out doesn't mean you can stop doing things considered basic courtesies that demonstrate how much you respect them as people. Love isn't a free pass to be an asshole unapologetically to the people you care about. If anything, the L-word grants you permission to step outside your comfort zone and do just a little bit more to remind those around you just how absolutely exceptional they are.

 

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Fiction: I only update every Sunday so I can yell, "SUNDAY FUNDAY," from the top of every proverbial rooftop that has ever existed ever and also wear my pajamas all the live-long day.

 

Fact: I UPDATE WHENEVER THE HECK I WANT.

 

Which is usually Sundays. But I'm moving this weekend (hooray!), so here's my self-promised weekly rambling a few days early. Thursday Fursday? Do people still wear furs? Would I feel okay wearing a fur? Would I feel okay even wearing a fake fur? HOW DID THIS TURN INTO AN ANIMAL CRUELTY POST?!

huffy muppets, makeovers, and a reminder of how wonderful you are

Personality is a terrifying thing. Too little, and you'll disappear into the porous woodwork of people who laugh at exactly the right volume or have the perfect haircuts or can walk around without looking like a huffy muppet. Too much, and you're the vulgar one. The outspoken one. The one who maybe drinks a little too much or makes that one joke that toes a line.

I have, and never will be, a balanced person. I go through phases of obsession, with foods, (CLEMENTIIIIIIIIIIINES!) clothes, (a magenta blazer I recently bought) and TV shows (I'm looking at you, Doctor Who). When something becomes my favorite, I think it's my favorite thing of all time...until I find my next favorite. I'm not very graceful, but as the boyf says, I'm built for durability. I like to think this means I'm like a super-industrial, stylish piece of Ikea furniture, but also I just want to have bedhead and wear the huge t-shirts with dogs faces on them forever and ever.

I'm not the best at meeting new people. I'm perpetually worried that I'll cross a political line, offend someone with my many words for vagina, (that's what happens when you write erotica), or be the annoying one.  After awhile, I stopped being myself not only in public, but in private, too.

That internalization of worry and insecurity literally manifested on the outside. My hair grew out to a length that made it fall flat and faded to a weird mousy brown. I wouldn't wear eyeliner because it made my eyes look too big. I kept my shoulders slumped and I struggled to make eye contact.

But then it sort of dawned on me that the only thing worse than being all of yourself is being absolutely none of yourself. Because at the end of the day, I'm a force to be reckoned with. We all are.

I've yet to meet someone who doesn't say something off-color that's both wildly hilarious and strangely moving. We are all so powerfully flawed and gorgeously messy, and those little divots and splotches on our personalities (and bodies) are what makes grabbing drinks around a piano bar, or reading blogs, or talking to the woman behind you at Target so incredibly fulfilling.

So often, I find myself censoring a comment/tweet/blog post/text/joke because it's TOO me, and I know I'm not alone in this. WHAT ARE WE SO SCARED OF? Forging connections? Going from anonymous to noticed? After all, noticed means people will talk, and not everything they say will always be nice.

But ultimately, all we can do, each and every one of us who are TOO [insert adjective], is to live in the way that sets our eyes alight with excitement, and love, and hilarity.

Wedging myself into the little gray boxes of anonymity was so fucking exhausting, you guys, and it's nice to be out and breathing. All I can say is I'm ready to adventure.

Come with me?

llamas, braininade (brain marinade?)​, and an outfit any kei$ha would envy

I grew up being super into performance theater. In one of my improv classes, we were told to alwaysALWAYS say yes to the love. The bottom line is that in a scene, and, yes keeps momentum going, allowing stories to feed and grow as the people progress.

 

"What are you doing?"

"Shaving a llama."

"Where did you find a llama on Valentine's Day?"

 

Yes, you have a llama, and...?

 

Similarly, it was taught that saying no is an immediate shut-off valve for progression.

 

"What are you doing?"

"Shaving a llama."

"No, you're not."

"...oh."

 

This makes sense on a very fundamental level, and I'm not just talking about improv.

 

As long as I can remember, I've always been so particular about what and who I allow into my world, making automatic pro-and-con lists on nearby bits of paper to calculate everything from whether or not I should move across the country to what I'll have for lunch.

 

Scribbling frantically in fits of unwarranted panic, the worries and excitement would spill together in a blend of undiluted fear and excuses. The slips of paper, scratched nearly to death with over-thinking, would get put in a pile. Some lists would be duplicates. Some would be assigned point values in order to supply concrete, quantitative data for my racing and unpredictable emotions.

 

Often, the outcome was a resounding NO! NO WAY. NO HOW. NO. MOTHERFUCKING. THANK YOU.

 

I couldn't because I was too scared of what might happen.

I couldn't because I was too scared of how I might feel.

I couldn't because I was too scared of mights.

I couldn't because I was too scared.

 

Saying no to conversation, opportunities, advice, and adventure had been keeping my very conflicted and very busy brain locked up in the confines of my skull, marinating in the isolated crazies and steeping in uncertainty. My yes, and's were getting slashed to bits before they even had time for tea.

 

And then, slowly, I began easing the solid NO!'s out of the way. I had to push at first. But eventually I peeked my toe out, (driving to places I'd never been), then a foot, (going to the aquarium), and a leg, (designing and publishing my first-ever professional website).

 

To avoid a huge long list of terrible body metaphors, let's just say that in the last three months, I've seen more of people I wanted to see more of. I've written recklessly and am nearly finished with the rough copy of my third book. I went to a mixer for creatives where I mingled in a room full of talented people, knowing almost no one, and kindling the start of what would become a very passionate love affair with Leopold Bros gin.

 

And most recently, I've registered for an [un]conference in Vegas. I'll fly alone to a city I haven't seen since I was seven to be greeted by strangers, all with powerful stories and contagious personalities. I'll wear clothes I never thought I'd own, hug people I never thought I'd meet, and embark on one of my greatest adventures to date.

 

There's something so liberating about cranking on those say-yes-to-the-love floodgates, about throwing those doors open wide and letting myself experience the pure exhilarating terror that comes with consciously welcoming newness into my very routined brain. So, I'm a woman with a BA in poetry kicking ass in finance. I'm changing every day. And in May, I'm going to go make 75 best friends in Vegas wearing a skirt that has disco in the name.

 

Um. YES! And?

anxiety, too much information, and kicking 2013 in the gonads

I have this thing where I can't fall asleep on my back because I'm convinced that resting peacefully in a perfect lower-me-into-a-coffin position means I'll die. Surely, it's just too convenient for me not to. On the rare occasion when I do decide it's okay to tempt fate, I shove my hands down my pants because certainly, certainly, the Universe couldn't be cruel enough to strike a girl dead with her hands down her pants. Can it?

Before bed, I once had a guy look over and ask why my fingers were shoved in my underwear like a creep-o extraordinaire. We'd made a platonic pact, and here I was putting half my arm where the sun don't shine.

"I won't die in my sleep with my hands down my pants," I explained simply, years of the fear-induced recording embedded like gospel.

He blinked a couple times. "If you're going to die, you're going to die, and then the paramedics will find you with your hands down your pants."

I'm not sure if you guys know this, but being awesome is pretty fucking terrifying. There are so many things I consciously want to do. I can think about them, and get excited, but then when it comes time to do it, I just freak the fuck out. There's no poetic way to put it; it just is what it is. I can't pinpoint exactly when I became so scared of everything: driving on the highway, dying my hair a noticeable color, walking through malls on my own. But I have become that terrified person. And I hate it.

On an intellectual level, I can acknowledge how absolutely trivial and goofy those things sound. However, I still get physically terrified, causing me to avoid uncomfortable situations at nearly ALL COSTS. My pulse quickens and there's a tightness in my chest that I always think means I'm having a heart attack but actually means that I've forgotten to breathe upon merging into traffic from an on-ramp. Of course, the OH-MY-GOD-WHY-AM-I-HAVING-A-HEART-ATTACK feeling doesn't do much to dispel the anxiety, either. That's mostly when the crying starts.

Ultimately, the overwhelming, gut-wrenching fear has been such a huge part of my life for so long that I've forgotten about the version of me who isn't scared of everything. The version who performed onstage, single-handedly directed plays in college, loved going to movies alone, dyed her hair hot pink, laughed too loudly at restaurants, and generally lived.

The other day, Shmoyfriend said he really wanted to go to the aquarium, then sheepishly added that he knows I don't like it.

"I don't?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"You said the giant room with the sharks makes you feel uneasy," he replied, an automatic response to years of me hedging around things that make my pulse race just a little too fast.

And then it hit me. My anxiety has become such a huge presence in my life that not only do I avoid situations that make me uncomfortable, but other people have to steer us around adventures to avoid a bout of anxiousness surrounding things that, logically, pose no actual threat.

When he articulated it so plainly, it highlighted just how wastefully I've been living. Or not living, actually. I mean, I love the aquarium. I'm going to go to the fucking aquarium. By giving myself permission to avoid the things that may make me feel uneasy, I've been giving them power over who I am and what I do. And to me, that seems pretty stinkin' stupid.

So now, I'm allowing myself to be brave. Once a month, I'm going to do at least one thing that makes me oh-so-very panicky in the hopes the huge wall of hyperbolic anxiety will finally let me through.

I'm not entirely sure what all of these will be yet. I'll have to see where the biggest sources of my anxiety rest, and move forward from there, systematically isolating and tackling them. However, I do know that for January I'll be going to a mixer for creative types where I'll know almost no one. I'll be presenting myself as a member of their tribe, truly branding myself as a person with something worthwhile to give, and to share, and to offer. This is a huge step. I'm going to come out of the safe little shadowy boxes I've so artfully crammed myself into, and moreover, I'm going to come out of them in new lipstick.

After nearly 24 years of dealing with this bullshit, I'm ready to lace up my tennis shoes, slam my apartment door behind me, and kick Fear in the nards. 2013, bitches.

UPDATE:

I went to the aquarium!

Lumpfish. True story.

[Insert Jaws theme song.]




"Hairy Otter" is a pretty decent name for vagina. Just sayin'.

 

Also Shmoyfriend and I got these shirts to commemorate the experience. I'm basically a baller and/or shot caller, save the 20-inch blades on the Impala. Mostly because I don't know what "blades" are, but a car with knives sounds SO DANGEROUS.

records, new jobs, and that time I talked about poop for eight years

Today officially marks another new beginning at another new job. Seeing as I've now truly moved on from my past position as a receptionist at a fancy-pants interior design hub, it feels necessary to reflect back upon the experience.

And the main lesson I've learned, the truth which I know to be self-evident, and other Declaration of Independence-y things, is that everybody poops.

I know this isn't profound. Heck, there's even a book about it, (that's currently sold out on Amazon). I say this not as a source of personal comfort, but rather as a big ol' HEY YOU! YES, YOU. I KNOW YOU JUST SHIT EVERYWHERE IN THAT BATHROOM.

As a receptionist, the exhaustive list of my duties consisted of reading magazines, answering the occasional phone call, smiling in a way that made me want to punch a bitch, and paying way too much attention to anyone and everyone who dared pass by the marble-topped desk polished to a perfect sheen.

Ultimately, it never ceased to amaze me how different people handled the curious situation of walking by me to get to the restroom.

The C.O.O.? She'd prance down the stairs in her heels, comment on whatever wardrobe choice I'd made half-asleep the hour before, and declare that she needed to brush her teeth after her morning cup of coffee and nutritiously responsible breakfast.

She disappeared daily into that bathroom for fifteen minutes minimum. How many teeth does she have?! Also, I'm the one who ordered her food each morning, and that nutritiously responsible breakfast she was always so anxious for? It was a bran muffin. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE DO TO YOUR INSIDES?! Because I sure do. So, unless she was shoving a toothbrush in her...actually, nevermind. You get it. It's also worth noting that I just actively resisted saying something about "little bleached assholes," because it looks SO creepy in print, and also makes it seem like I'm into butt sex. Not that there's anything wrong...JUST NEVERMIND.

The guy from upstairs whose named I never learned? He'd come by once and make eye contact, smile, ask me how I was, and head into that little wooden door separating the wide world of anal leakage from the $40,000 coffee tables of the show rooms. The second time, he'd make eye contact and smile, sometimes ask me how I was again, for good measure. The third time, he'd just make eye contact and smile. By the EIGHTEENTH TIME IN FIVE HOURS (that's not hyperbole, you guys), he'd do this sort of scuttle thing through the lobby, staring intently at the bathroom door.

The intensity of his focus on that door made me think that he either felt really awkward about how often he had to go, or he had some sort of illness that gave him exponentially-worsening diarrhea as the day progressed, transitioning from a little morning deuce to a violent shit volcano providing some sort of propulsive lift off the toilet seat. The bathroom just wasn't a nice porcelain place to sit down, but the end of The Quest Not to Shit His Pants Among Colleagues. Also, if someone makes a movie of that quest, I want in the credits.

The last, and probably greatest teacher during my experience, was a woman who graced me with her presence not two weeks ago. The conversation went as follows.

Woman: You guys need to do something about that bathroom. There is...mess...everywhere. This is supposed to be a quality experience for clients, and I do not feel valued or emotionally elevated.

Me: I apologize, ma'am. Let me call maintenance and we'll get this resolved.

[Enter maintenance stage left.]

Maintenance: What's the problem?

Woman: Someone made a disgusting mess in the restroom.

Maintenance: I just cleaned that bathroom five minutes ago. How many people have used it?

Me: Just one.

Maintenance: Huh. Well, I'll go check it out. You're sure it was like that before you went in?

Woman: What are you suggesting?

Maintenance: That if I cleaned it, and you're the only person to have used it, then the mess is from you.

Woman: [Does flustery things.]

Maintenance: I'll take a look. Maybe a pipe burst or something.

Woman's husband: Honey, you did have Mexican last night.

Maintenance: [Yelling from bathroom.] OH! OH, GOD! IT'S ALL OVER THE FLOOR. AND THE WALL?!

Woman: [Exists swiftly.]

It just baffles me that she could have easily walked away, maybe called in an anonymous tip or made a casual, "It's getting kind of messy in there" statement on her way out. But instead, she chose to throw a fit about a shit storm she brewed. She went out of her way to remove any possible blame from herself, ultimately making one very seasoned and very large maintenance man dry-heave into the drinking fountain. She had Mexican food, indeed.

I'm not saying that everyone should openly announce their bowel movements. You don't need to shout from the rooftop that you're about to go lay down a big one (which sort of sounds like you're recording an album and could totally be awesome new slang for pooping, FYI), but FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, don't waste your energy trying to disguise the fact that the stuff you put in your body FOR SURVIVAL comes back out again. Everybody poops, ya'll. Well, except for me. Obviously. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go brush my asshole.

life lessons, melodramatic introspection, and a let's-be-honest pep talk

Right now, I'm sitting in a purple brick building drinking caramel apple cider and waiting for a friend to find out if she's won a bid on a house. A gorgeous house. Do people win bids? I don't know much about housing. But I digress.

Last night, as I drank cinnamon whiskey, watching lame movies via instant streaming on my tiny TV, and getting so caught up in crafting that I finally crawled into bed exhausted and exhilarated as the sun rose, I can't help but think that I am finally becoming the person I was meant to be. I try not to be too floofy (totally a word), about The Uuuuuuuniverse taking care of me, blah blah, but I can say with startling clarity that the last few months of fucking shit up has been leading to this glorious, abnormally-warm November day where I'm genuinely and furiously happy.

As most of you probably know, the last year (AN ENTIRE MOTHERLOVING YEAR HAS PASSED) has been an adventure for me of ginormous proportions. That's hyperbole, and makes it sound like I've been on a hobbit-like journey, when in reality I've just cried a lot, binge drank, and bought an obscene amount of ZzzQuil to cope with the little asshole known as insomnia. Mostly, I've just been overwhelmingly underwhelmed by cubicles, asshats, and the way my shoulders knot up beneath my ears in the way that makes me feel like if I don't GET OUT RIGHT FUCKING NOW I WILL DIE. I think they call that anxiety, but I call it getting so upset I dry heave out my car window on the way to terrible jobs.

The answer to this problem was that I did get out. I got out over and over again, leaving behind jobs that were more welcome-to-the-dark-side-you-douchecanoe than you're-doing-something-good-for-society. And I felt guilty. Every single time, my anxiety seamlessly became this amorphous blob, fluctuating rapidly and unexpectedly between crippling fear, uncertainty, and a dirty conscience.

But something has changed. Me, mostly. I've learned that I'm the most important thing in my life. I've learned that if I need to wander around Hobby Lobby for three hours until I can calm my racing pulse, (and impulsively decide that I need to learn the fine art of wood burning), that's okay. Leaving meaningless jobs where I was nothing more than an anonymous zit on the ass of corporate business is okay. Eating apples and Nutella for four days straight is okay. I'm okay.

Is my depression magically cured? Absolutely not, but I'm on new meds, (oh, HAI, I take meds), and found a therapist I like. Do I have my dream job? No, my dream job is being a professional chocolate tester and also napper where the uniform is a flying squirrel onesie. But I do have a fulfilling position at a local school district where I matter. Did I wake up today and shit glitter in regards to the sheer wonderment of such a bright and shiny and magical day?! Unfortunately not, but that's probably okay since I've hypothesized the tiny glass shards within the glitter would probably make a messy exit. BLOODY BUTT MASSACRE 2012.

But I did wake up and brush my teeth, put on a cute sweater and leave the house. Progress.

I don't want to be all, seize the day because every day we're moving one day closer to death, but YOU GUYS. SEIZE THE DAY BECAUSE EVERY DAY WE'VE MOVING ONE DAY CLOSER TO DEATH.

If this last year has taught me anything, it's to make time for what you love, to make time to live, whether that be knitting mittens, collecting coins, painting abstracts, or alphabetizing movies. Isolate what makes your eyes bright and your shoulders relax and go do it.

DO MORE SHIT THAT MAKES YOU AWESOME.

Also, don't eat a lot of glitter. Just in case.