Monday, June 29, 2015

Teeny. Tiny... Oh, Wait.

I'm obsessed intrigued by the tiny house movement for a number of reasons.

First: everything is cuter when it's little. Think about it. Baby critters. Tiny stuffed animals and toys. Cupcakes. Baby shoes. The smaller the more adorable. Even teeny spiders somehow manage to be cute. I'll still squish 'em, but they're cute. Tiny houses are SO CUTE.

Second: I like the notion of scaling back and having less. (Except for books, but I'll get to that in a minute.) I like the idea of taking up less space and trying to meet your needs in a way that makes sense and is sustainable instead of surrounding yourself with ALL OF THE THINGS.

(Again, unless the things are books. Because you should totally surround yourself with books.)

Third: Cleaning it would be a snap. It's a tiny house! How dirty could it get?

I keep seeing teeny, tiny, minuscule, incredibly awesome houses on social media, and I keep thinking:    I want one.

And to be honest? I think the Fella and I could pull it off. Our apartment is teeeeeeensy (studio! One room!) and has one functional closet and we're making this work. We could completely live in a tiny, sweet, cozy little house.

Well, we mostly could live in a tiny house. We would just have one, not insignificant problem.

The books.

I know what you're thinking: Just get an e-reader!

We have e-readers.

We have two, in fact.

And yet, despite that, we also have seven shelves full of books in the house and about eleven crates and bins of them in storage. (There are also several shopping bags in there that I suspect hold books, but at this point I'm afraid to look, because I think that might mean that we have the kind of problem that calls for a twelve-step program and anonymous meetings that ABSOLUTELY cannot be held in libraries.)

Our love of books is a speed bump on my personal tiny house highway, but despite this, I don't -- we don't -- stop getting books. We're book people, you see. We love them. We need to be around them. We need to be able to see and touch and open them.

I'll figure this out at some point. I will.

And when I do? The tiny house will have a not-so-tiny library.

Friday, June 26, 2015

If You're Feeling Alone

You're not alone.

I've been where you are. There has been more than one time in my life when I didn't know how to say that things were fucked up and that I was lost, and afraid, and that I wanted to hurt myself because I didn't know how to cope with the pain that simply waking up in the morning caused.

You are NOT alone.

My friends -- who are wonderful people -- kept holding out their hands and begging me to take them. Come on, they said. We've got you. Come on.  Sometimes I was able to grab hold and they would pull me close. Okay, it's okay, they said, we're right here. You're not alone.

Neither are you.

I know sometimes it feels like you are. I know sometimes those outstretched hands seem impossibly far away. But I also know this:

I will never stop reaching out to you. I will never not love you. I will never, ever, not hold on if there's a moment when you wrap your fingers around mine. If you need me? I will be there for you. If you want to talk, I have ears to listen. If you want to sit quietly, I have a chair. If you need a hug, I will offer you my arms. If you need a drink, I'm buying. Whatever you need.

You are not alone.

What I learned, what I know, is that an offered hand is the most valuable thing in the world. That feeling alone is not the same as being alone.

I am here. My hand is outstretched.

You are not alone.

Marriage Equality

If you've been following this blog for any length of time, then you know I have long been an advocate for marriage equality.

I am writing this post on July 26, 2015. Today, the Supreme Court ruled that marriage equality is the law of the land.

My brain is trying to comprehend this in a "Did that just happen?!?" kind of a way because ... okay. When a single state ruled for marriage equality? It was amazing and excellent and I would do the happy dance around my house and sing to my cat and offer up thanks to Jesus and try to avoid gloating to my loved ones who don't agree with me for religious reasons* and just bask in the awesome.

One state at a time, I thought.

But this? This is... all of the states.

So you'll have to forgive me if I'm crying right now, if I keep pinching myself to be sure I'm awake, if I'm terrified that somehow, someone will snatch this out from under all of us.

The whole country. All at once. In one ruling.

I keep thinking of those loved ones who disagree with me, and thinking: You taught me to love everyone. You taught me that we are all worthy. We all deserve the same things.

I absorbed your lessons. I believe you were right. We are all worthy and deserving. That's all skin colors and religions and backgrounds and I know you never considered sexualities but it's that too and I don't want to fight with you but this? This is so important and I know it because of what you taught me and I believe it the way I believe that I am right handed and green eyed.

I am so happy and so bizarrely freaked out right now. I know that the fight for us all to love each other and accept each other and believe in each other isn't over.

But love has gained a foothold. A strong foothold.

I'll shed some joyful tears for that.

*Sometimes I failed. Sorry about the gloating, loved ones.

Thursday, June 25, 2015



"We could spend the day binge watching SHIELD"

"I prefer the term 'marathon watching'; binge connotates unhealthy behavior."

"Like sitting inside all day and watching tv?"

"Well, yeah."


"We are victims of Marvel... If only they'd churn out Sherlock the way they do Marvel Comics... Oh wait! Isn't Cumberbatch going to be in one of the new ones?"

"YES! He IS! ... Take all my money, Marvel!"


"It's like all of the spiders just IGNORE. The. Treaty!"

"Reading isn't really an arachnid thing, Yellie."

"It needs to be. Because otherwise being squished by a Nike is TOTALLY a thing. 'Just Do It?' Don't mind if I do!"


"Look at this photo. It's a ray migration. So many stingrays. I'm kind of freaked out."

"And then you remembered that you don't go in the ocean..."

"Oh! Because I don't like being at the bottom of the food chain!"

"... And the crisis was averted."


"There should be more fun names for groups of things. Like a group of crows is a murder. There should be more like that."

"Like a group of zombies would be an UUUUUURG."

"A group of politicians would be a sleaze! 'Did you see that huge sleaze of politicians?' 'Yeah, Congress is in session.' "

"A group of rappers is a bling."

"A group of celebrities would be a cah-ching!"


Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Will You Stand? (For Charleston, and Everywhere Else)

One of my friends on Facebook posted the below:

And I thought, I should probably let this go.
But then I didn't.
    • Danielle Hayes I don't understand why you would want to do this, and it saddens me.
      Like · Reply · 27 mins
    • Heather Marie Its history it deserves to stay
      Like · Reply · 15 mins
    • Danielle Hayes It has everything to do with colour. I lived in North Carolina for three years, in an area where the Klan is alive and well. In nearly every Confederate State's documentation withdrawing from the U.S. is language decrying the rights and humanity of people of colour, and stating that slavery is a God-given right since "the black race" is inferior and subservient. That flag should be to this country what the swastika is to Germany -- a symbol of organized and institutionalized bigotry, ignorance, and hatred that has no place in a country that does not need to be further divided. 

      It should not be removed from our history as a country. It is important that we be reminded that we have overcome a period when it was legal to exploit, use, and destroy fellow human beings for the sake of profit. It should, however, be removed from our present in the same way that Germany doesn't fly the swastika over its government buildings. It is part of the past that has no place in a present. Bigotry and intolerance and yes, racism have no place here, and neither does this flag.
      Like · Reply · Just now · Edited

    I didn't let it go because I have friends in Charleston who were devastated by what happened in their hometown, in the city that they love. 
I didn't let it go because some of my favorite people in this world are people of colour, people who would have been enslaved and exploited and harmed under that flag.
I didn't let it go because I have friends who have children who are people of colour, and who deserve a home country that doesn't fly a flag ANYWHERE that indicates that they are less than perfect and valid and wonderful and WORTHY.
I didn't let it go because when you have a voice, you need to use it to speak up. Because you need to stand up for others. Because you need to do what's right, right in that moment.
Because love is more important than hate, and needs to speak more loudly than hate. 
Will you stand?

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Being the Grown-Up

It wasn't long after we started having him spend the weekends when the Wee One, The Fella's son, said "I am supposed to ask a grown up before I something something something." I don't remember what it was that he wanted permission to do; it's completely escaped me because he was looking at me when he asked.

Because I was supposed to grant or deny permission.

Because ... and this is so weird ... I was the grown up.

Now, those of you who have children all of the time, who signed up for parenthood legally or who had a child exit her body (or who is the proud partner of someone who did) are probably laughing your ass off at the idea that while the Wee One was looking for me to reply,  I was looking around to see who else would be qualified to say "yes" or "no" or "maybe later" because I did not want those doe eyes staring at me, expecting that I would know what to do in any situation, let alone EVERY situation.

Or maybe you're not laughing. Maybe you're nodding sympathetically because you've been there too. Like when they sent you home with your own wee one for the first time without an instruction manual or a supervising adult because -- guess what? That's YOU now! GOOD LUCK HAHAHAHAHA!

I keep thinking maybe it's easier if the wee ones don't arrive in your life kind of sudden-like, if you have time to get used to the idea. "Okay, in about forty weeks there's going to be a child.  Okay. Um. I need to some stuff. And read some books and watch some videos and ....ewwwww, okay, no more videos... and, you know, prepare for this. But an infant won't know that I'm winging it, and by the time she's old enough to figure it out maybe I'll be, err, LESS winging it. Which would be good, since I totally don't want this kid to realize right away that I am TERRIFIED right now."

Sometimes I am terrified, even though, as the Wee One himself has pointed out, I'm not his mom. I'm his Yellie. We're both figuring out what that means, but here's what I know for sure:

It means that he expects me to know answers.

It means that I have Legos in my purse for when he's having a super good day.

It means that he wants me to read him stories sometimes.

It means that I worry about his schooling and what the future holds for him.

It means that he thinks I am an excellent baker.

It means that I've sucked it up and started to bake things.

It means that he snuggles up to me on the love seat.

It means that I love his little face.

It means that he thinks I'm a grown up.

And it means ... that I think I'm learning how to be one.

Sort of.


In the meantime, if you want to play with some Legos, I've got some in my purse.

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Mutual Appreciation

Some people are wordy people. For example, I am clearly a word person. I like to use language in a variety of  formats to express myself. I'm the girl who writes cards and letters and long, grammatically correct texts and ... oh yeah, a blog. I like words.

Some people are not wordy people. Some people are action-oriented. They will do rather than say.

For the record? These are both valid ways of being.  One is not better than the other.

Let me just say that again, in case you missed it:

One is not better than the other.

Oh, but we like to think one is preferable, don't we? If you're a word person, you believe that words are the pinnacle of expression. If you're an action person, you don't understand why some people can't appreciate or see a gesture and understand what is expresses.

I see this a lot in the relationships around me and find that it is the source of a boatload of frustration; people failing to hear -- or see -- what a friend/ family member/ partner/ coworker / whatever is expressing to them because the mode of communication is not the one that s/he primarily uses.

As an example, let's look at apologies.

Word people will apologize with words. All of the words. They will say it. They will write it. They may sing it. They will tell you, in no uncertain terms, that they are sorry, so very very sorry, and will do their best to try not to do whatever the thing was ever again. EVER.

Word people think other people should apologize this way, and if someone doesn't apologize to them in this fashion, they're usually (mostly) convinced that the other person is not sorry, not even a little, and is in fact a colossal jerk.

Action people? Don't usually get what all of the fuss is about. They might not verbally apologize. Instead, they will demonstrate their regret about what happened through gestures -- some big, some small, but clearly there. The verbal apology is not what's important to them, but showing that they're sorry is; because of that, they don't necessarily enjoy a word-based apology. They want to see something happening that shows you're sorry and, if they don't get that? They're usually (mostly) convinced that the other person is not sorry, not even a little, and is in fact a colossal jerk.

The problem isn't that the world is full of colossal jerks. The problem is that so few of us take the time to appreciate each other. The problem is that we get so hung up on our way of doing things -- what we think of as the "right" way -- that we can't see past being right to see -- or hear -- the way the people in our lives are expressing themselves and appreciate it.

And it's important. It's important to understand that there are a million -- a zillion! -- ways to tell someone you love them, or that you're sorry, or that you're angry, or proud, or whatever you are, and that no one way is the correct way. Yes, if you're a word-oriented person, it's great to hear that someone loves you,  but it's also really amazing to see it in action.

Ideally? We'd all back up all of our words with actions and our actions with words. However, that's not how most of us are wired.  There are a lot of people who can't say what they feel, but they can show it.

We need to appreciate each other more, I think. All of us. In each and every way we can express ourselves.

Push and Pull: a Conversation

It just got to the point that I realized: no one here is happy. He's not happy. I'm not happy. So I thought, what would need to happen for us to be happy? Really happy?

And what did you decide?

That there was nothing we could do. It wasn't anyone's fault, when it comes to it. It was just -- he kept waiting for me to want the exact same things he wanted. To hold onto all of his priorities the way he was holding to them. He had this idea in his head of who I should be and how I should be that way and that wasn't matching up with who I am. 

That's a hard thing.

I tried. I mean, he could be right, couldn't he? Maybe I should try to meet his expectations.

It doesn't work like that, though. One person can't do all of the bending. Compromise is a multi-party endeavor.

I know. I started to get mad. Like, how come my way isn't okay? How come my priorities and expectations and the things I want and need matter less than yours?

He thought you would change.

And I guess that I thought that he would, too.

People change all of the time. Change is a thing. But -- you can't force someone to become what you want. You can't expect them to. That's not fair.

I feel like a dope.

Oh sweetie. Your're not a dope. You just -- okay. You started out down the same path. Right? Like, holding hands and occasionally skipping and singing songs. That was good. That was great. But then you started to notice the scenery; the flowers and the animals and the trees were interesting to you, so you were, like, tugging on his hand -- look over here! Come and see! -- while he was looking at something down the road, totally walking forward and pulling on your hand -- stop lolly gagging! Look what's just ahead! And you can't... If you can't both give a little? Either someone is getting dragged along, which is not awesome, or your hands just pull apart. It doesn't make either of you bad people? It just means that your paths are going different ways now.

And that's okay? No. That's okay.

It IS okay. You'll be okay. You can meander and dally and check out the daisies and stop being force marched down the wrong kind of path while you figure out what the right one is, and maybe you can also -- not today, but eventually? -- wish him well on his.

I'm going to be fine.

You already are.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

F'ing Perfect

Since I posted Love. Story. people have been interested in how the Fella and I are doing.

Here's the deal, y'all.

Neither of us are perfect. I tense up and go silent when I'm upset.  He has a tendency to lose track of time.  I get overly emotional and crazy when I feel like there's clutter. He would rather gnaw off one of his limbs than attend a wide variety of social events.

We're not perfect. We both have baggage and issues and ... stuff.

But ... and here's the thing ... that baggage? That stuff? Makes us perfect for each other. Our crazy lines up just right.

And that? Is magical.

Of course, I continue to maintain that I recognized it when I was FIFTEEN and it took him, like, forever, to catch up. (Because I TOTALLY did.)

So if you're wondering how things are?

They're imperfect.

Which is what makes it perfect.


The Fella and I live in a studio apartment. As far as studios go, it's actually pretty spacious and interesting. There is a galley kitchen that is a goodish size, and the bathroom is practically roomy. It's also a unique shape, and that allows for some nooks in which we could tuck bookcases (because we're book people, and need to be surrounded by them).

For all of that, though, the reality remains that it's essentially one large room. It's a dining/living/bed kind of a room -- it's the Swiss Army knife of living areas. Except for the door to get in and the bathroom door, there's no way to escape from anyone else or to shut anyone out. It's all right there.

When I moved in, of course, there was no Fella. When I moved in, I didn't even have a cat. It was just me and the room and my thoughts. I loved it. I loved the way the space flowed and purposes intermingled. I would pour a glass of wine and sit in the windowsill and watch the waterfall* and listen to myself as I remembered how to breathe -- really breathe -- after one of the more challenging periods of my life.

This space helped me to find peace when peace was a thing I had been missing.

Then I got Lizzie B, because this space without a cat was awesome, but this space WITH a cat? Would be phenomenal. She's a little cat -- so little, in fact, that I often call her Little -- but she made a huge, furry, loving, purr-tastic impact on my tiny home. She made me laugh.

I needed to laugh more, too. And now I was.

And then -- the Fella arrived in my life. Which, while awesome, was also terrifying. Tiny space. Two people. No way to escape. How would this work? What would I do if it DIDN'T work? I adore this man. What would I do if I needed space? There IS no space!

We made it work by not making it permanent. We'd try two weeks, we said, and see if it worked. Then we decided we'd try, like, a month. Then a season.

It's been about a year.

As hard as it is to believe, the space issue is not often a problem. We don't get in each other's way. We don't fight. Our most significant issue is, really, that we could use a closet. And more bookcases.

Despite that, I sometimes think about getting a bigger space. Maybe one with -- and I know this is crazy -- an actual bedroom. Another closet. More walls for bookshelves. You know, important things.


But then I look at the waterfall, and watch the cat fall asleep in the sunshine on the windowsill, and I think about how hard-won that sense of peace has been, and how cozy the apartment that we have made our home really is. I think, So what, we have a lot of stuff in storage. So what, we don't have doors. So what?

We have peace and laughing and a tiny tabby and love and a freaking waterfall.

Is it enough?

It's more than enough.

*because, yeah, I have a freaking waterfall outside my windows. I'm that fancy.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015


I keep hearing friends -- people I hold in high regard -- saying they've failed.

Failed at a job.

Failed at a relationship.

Failed out of higher education.

Failed at a diet.

Failed at a business opportunity.

Failed at a craft project.



I think it's time to re-frame what it means to fail. It's nearly always said with shame and sorrow, as though there's something inherently wrong with trying something and not having it work out EXACTLY the way that one hoped.

Which, when you think about it, is pretty freaking stupid.


Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who spent a lot of time cleaning up after her family. Like, a LOT a lot of time. There were multiple reasons for this -- she was a smidgen OCD and couldn't deal with clutter or dirt, and her family members were on the other end of the spectrum and were kind of hoarders, so she worked herself to the bone trying to keep their stuff from overtaking the house, and they kept making more clutter and mess, plus there was the kind of survivor's guilt that can come from losing family members -- whatever. The point is, girlfriend had some baggage and was working her backside off.

Finally, she thought, you know what? I need a BREAK.

So she hooked up with a personal shopper and got herself a nice dress and some snappy shoes and took a night off to go to the social event of the season. Sweet, right? She felt good, looked good, danced her butt off to Beyonce, and maybe enjoyed an adult beverage or two.

And she met a MAN. (Perhaps while shaking her stuff to Uptown Funk. I mean, who knows?)

He was cute. He could tell a good story. He listened to her talk. She dug him. He dug her. And then, just as she was about to ask for his number, she remembered that she needed to get home and let the dog out, because there was no WAY that she was going to get home after her super fabulous evening and clean up dog poop, thank you very much.  So out she dashed, throwing an apology over her shoulder, because the anxiety of having to worry about cleaning up dog shit had taken over her brain* -- in the process, she lost a shoe, but she didn't really notice.

So. She got home. No doggy accidents to clean up. A win!

Oh, but -- the guy. He was so cute. She had really liked him. She REALLY should have asked for his number.

She beat herself up. She had failed.

Or had she?


It turns out that the guy? Had really liked her too. So he started a Facebook campaign to find her. And sure enough, soon enough, they reconnected. She thought she had failed -- but she had made enough of an impression that he moved heaven, earth, and social media to find the girl who made him laugh, and that is the opposite of failure.

In addition, she learned something -- she learned to seize the moment. She learned to take a chance.

She learned to hire a dog sitter.

And they lived happily ever after.  Because that's what happens in Cinderella and other fairy tales.


It happens in life too -- and it happens more quickly if you realize that what you perceive as failure is just a stepping stone, a bridge to the next place you are supposed to be.


One of the things I believe most in this life is that it takes vast amounts of courage to try things. It takes bravery to put yourself out there and go for it, whatever "it" might be.

If it doesn't work? Failure is not an indication that you are terrible, or a loser, or an idiot or any of those negative things that we all tend to attach to the word failure. Failure is an indication that you are willing to try, willing to learn and grow.

Willing to try.

Willing to learn.

Willing to grow.

You know -- everyone knows -- that when you try something, it might go spectacularly poorly. But you also know -- everyone knows -- that life is a risk. Walking out the door in the morning is chancy. But you do it. We all do it.

We do it because what is out there is beautiful and worth the risk.

Even if we fail.


To my dear ones who think they have failed -- maybe things didn't work out the way you thought. You left the dance early. You lost a shoe.

On the other side of that there are amazing, exciting things. You'll get to them. They're there.

And because you tried -- because you're brave enough to try -- when you get to those other dances, those other destinations?

You are going to kick major ass.

I promise.

*I know some of you know what I'm talking about here.

Monday, June 15, 2015

On Being Worthy

The Fella gave me a laptop for my birthday.  It's the nicest computer I've ever owned, the kind of computer that I would look at when computer shopping and dismiss immediately because there was just no way I could justify the purchase.

But now I have Fancy. (Because of course I named my computer. Doesn't everyone do that?)

When he gave Fancy to me, The Fella said, "I want you to have something really good -- I want you to have the best tools for your writing." He was earnest. He believes in me.

My first thought was, "Oh, but I'm not a real writer."

My second was, "I don't deserve this gift."


In retrospect, this is pissing me off.


Fancy lived in the box she came in until today. Today, I fitted her with a hot pink, lace printed silicon case to protect her so she can live out in the open, where I can snag her and write whenever I feel like it.

Before today, I think I opened the box maybe -- and this is a generous estimate -- fifteen times?

I could see the box from where I slept -- it's a small apartment -- and would often see it first thing in the morning. It always made me feel guilty, because there was this amazing tool that the man who loves me got me so I could do the thing that makes me happy, and I wasn't using it -- further proof, I thought, that I didn't deserve it in the first place, but I couldn't figure out how to articulate that without also confessing what a huge loser I was.

One morning I thought: he believes that I deserve this.

And then I thought: what if he's right?


It's interesting to me, the way people -- I think this is especially true of women, but I have also observed it in men -- are quick to declare themselves unworthy. "I wasn't really qualified, so I didn't apply." "I couldn't ask him out -- he's so HANDSOME and I'm so ... blah." "I really liked that dress, but ... it was for something special and I don't have anything." "My car is kind of falling apart, but ... it still runs. I shouldn't get a new one." "I couldn't audition for that role -- they wanted REAL singers."


You are real.

You are qualified and attractive and special and deserving of feeling safe and warm and happy. You also have art -- all kinds of art -- flowing through you and whatever that art is, if it is singing or dancing or painting or writing? It counts and it is REAL.

It is real and you are real and you are worthy. You are worthy of the job and the date and the fancy dress that makes you acknowledge your own beauty and the car that works and runs and auditioning for the role because you ARE a real singer.

You deserve the chance and the evening and the sparkle and the horsepower and the spotlight.

You deserve it because you are here and you are amazing and you are worthy.


You won't get everything you want. No one does. That doesn't mean you don't deserve to try. It doesn't mean that you shouldn't believe in yourself.

You should.

And you should believe in the fact that other people believe in you.


When other people believe in you, embrace their belief. You are worthy of it.

When other people offer you blessings and gifts, take them. You are worthy of them.

When other people offer you praise, take it. Thank them. Don't dismiss it. You are worthy of praise and they are allowed to praise you -- by dismissing their praise you are telling them that you don't believe they are worthy.

They are.

You are.

I am.

WE are.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Stopping ... And Starting

Once upon a time, many years ago, I started a blog.

It was fun.

I mean, I guess it was also work? But it was fun. 

Here's what blogging did for me: it gave me a voice. It gave me an outlet. It created friendships. It created some super awkward situations a couple of times, but I figured out how to negotiate through those and (I hope) became a little more savvy.

Here's what it has never done: made me famous or rich. There are people that happens for, and that's incredibly awesome. I have never generated any income from my writing. I don't have a secret book deal -- and since I hate ads, I'm not making revenue that way.

I have never cared. Not once. That wasn't why I started writing; I started writing because writing brings me joy.

Which probably makes you wonder why I kind of stopped.


When I started this blog, I worked from home. Working from home has some major perks, like never wearing shoes and unlimited access to coffee and snacks and having Facebook open all day and having the time to write a blog. In my case, those perks came with a challenging employer and no personal life, but whatever.

Eventually the "whatever" became intolerable and I had to find another job -- my (admittedly shaky) mental health demanded it. 

So I did. But now I had to wear shoes and cut back my coffee obsession and eat fewer snacks and couldn't be on Facebook during the day and ... I didn't have time to write.

I couldn't figure out how to make time for it either; when I tried, it felt like ... Work.

That was a problem.


Another problem was a friend of mine. You know how I said I don't do it for the money or fame because... There isn't any?

For a friend of mine... Someone I like a lot ... There is. It's wonderful. I'm thrilled for him.

Or I was until the day we found ourselves at a party where he was being introduced to people as an important writer and I wasn't being introduced to anyone at all. 

He had asked me for help when he was getting started, and I was happy to do it. I'll always be happy that I assisted him in any way, because he's a bona fide rock star.

But suddenly he was a writer. And I was ... Not even worth introducing.*

That was... Not exactly a problem?

But it wasn't NOT a problem.


Somewhere along the way I lost my joy. Every time I picked up a tablet or my laptop or even my phone and tried to find it again, it was with crossed fingers and the hope that this time the words would come and I would remember how much I used to love this thing that is pretty much the only thing I've ever felt good at.

I would occasionally get near it, which was... Well, it sucked a little because almost getting there is not the same as actually getting there. It's like peering at an amusement park through a fence but never going in and riding the rides. It's disappointing.

After a while, I stopped looking through the fence.


I'd started thinking, lately, that I might have some things I wanted to talk about. A lot has happened in the two years since I stopped blogging daily. I'd like to talk about some of it, I thought. I might have some things to say.

 Another thing that began happening -- just recently -- is that people (other than my mom) began asking about the blogging and telling me they missed it.

Which made me realize: I missed it too. I missed looking at the screen. I missed watching the words assemble as I typed. I missed thinking about how to say what I wanted to say.

I missed it.

I got out my laptop, took a breath, and began writing.

And just like that, it was making me happy.


You have to make time for the people, places, and things you love. You have to work it in. I think my biggest problem is that I wasn't willing to let go of some things I thought I was supposed to do in order to do what I wanted to do. I couldn't give myself permission to let the dishes sit for an hour while I did the thing I loved. I think too many of us do that and, in doing so, begin to endure life rather than live it.

We're not here to suffer through our days. We're here to dance and laugh and sing through them.

And sometimes, we're here to write.

*i don't believe this was intentional but it was crushing.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

Friday Randoms


"That is a really good idea!"

"I have them regularly. You just, um, ignore them."

"You only think I'm ignoring them. Really I'm stealing them."

"... That's... Wait. What?!?"

"I'm kidding... OR AM I?"


"The shiv. For when you only LOOK unarmed."

"Oh my God, that is my new motto."


"There's a notice posted on the door of that house."

"That's never a good sign."

"How come notices on doors never say anything like 'please come in and play with the unicorn'?"

"They're usually warnings like, 'we're citing you because your unicorn is rabid and frothing rainbows out of its mouth.' "


"I know, that's why there's a notice."


"Ugh. She sent me an email in all caps. So shouty."

"I wish there was a way to respond to that."

"There is!"


"All lowercase. In a teeeeeeeny font. She's gonna yell? I'm going to whisper."


"The trouble with insomnia is that it causes you to look at your partner, the person you love most in the world, sleeping peacefully beside you? With rage. Because -- how is she sleeping? WHAT IS THAT?"

"But you don't elbow her?"

"Because I am a SAINT."