NaNo Me, Baby!

I’ve decided to do NaNoWriMo this year. I have done this insanity in the past. I’ve even been successful at reaching or surpassing the 50,000 word goal more than once. It’s been a blessing and a curse, really. On the blessing side of the spectrum, my past NaNo experiences have caused a creative and writing frenzy. There’s nothing quite as exhilarating as listening to your fingers clacking across the keyboard as you write with giddy abandon. On the curse side … Well, I have to admit my giddy abandon usually doesn’t survive past the month of November. In my younger years, I think it would have. But, as I am now, it ends up being one month of giddy abandon followed by eleven months of sitting around and obsessing over how much I suck.

Writing used to be an escape for me. My “Great Escape”, even. For all intents and purposes, I was a happy and well-adjusted kid. Anyone who knew me or met me in my daily life back then pegged me for fairly cheerful, painfully responsible, and, perhaps, a bit too quiet. I used to hear “You should smile more!” a lot. A LOT. In reality, I wasn’t particularly happy. I don’t know if I qualified as well-adjusted, but I do know I wasn’t happy. I hid it well, behind things like being cheerful and painfully responsible. I wasn’t free to express my feelings or to dream and try new things. I had to keep everything all to myself, hidden down deep inside for fear I would be mocked. Or, even worse, that nothing I had to say and nothing I had to feel would be taken seriously. I was good at being invisible. This is where writing came in and saved me. In my writing, I could dream. I could be anyone I wanted. I could explore and feel and hope. I could be visible.


It seems writing isn’t that thing for me any longer. Instead of my escape, it has become my prison. I avoid it, day after day, feeling guilty and low for doing so. The words don’t come easily to me any longer. The stories still live in my head, but they are shrouded in dust and fog now. Writing isn’t alive for me any more. I’m just … tired. I feel small and awful and beaten down by life. I have good days, where things seem hopeful and grand. But, mostly, I feel tired. I feel like a shell of the person I used to be, of the person I want to be. I want my escape back, to a certain extent. I want moments where I can feel, well, REAL. I want my world to have color, instead of the drab same-ness it has become.

And so, this year’s NaNo … I hadn’t planned on giving it a go. For the past two or three years, I haven’t been able to summon up the interest to give it a try. I love the giddy writing part. But the let-down that I have experienced in the months after didn’t feel worth it to me. Maybe I’m not a writer. Maybe I have to come to terms with that and let it go. I don’t want to, but is this a realistic way for me to feel? I mean, am I just clinging onto something I want to be true, when it isn’t true?

I don’t know. And I don’t expect NaNo will answer any of those questions for me. I don’t expect it will lead to some creative renaissance on my part. With the way it’s going so far, I don’t even expect it to be fun. Although I have a start to my story, the past couple of days have been filled with adulting things: doctors’ appointments for my Child Unit, a vet visit for one of my dogs, anxiety over potential life changes, worry over my elderly parents, Halloween (although this isn’t in November, but it takes a toll), grocery store runs, dry cleaning, and errands of all kinds. I’ve hardly been home for more than an hour at a time. It’s been hard for me to clear my mind so that I can think about my potential story in any meaningful fashion. The words are slow to come, and they feel clumsy and awkward, like bashful eighth graders at their first school dance. I haven’t yet tapped into the part of my brain that lets me write without second-guessing myself. Maybe it will come. I hope it will come, if I keep slogging along.

Mainly, I decided to jump into NaNo again this year because my Child Unit is doing it. She wanted me to participate, too. If you’re a parent of a teenager, you will know this for a universal truth: If your teen wants to do anything at all with you, you will do it. Without question. Because they are mostly all about putting distance between themselves and their parents at this age. This is natural, and I know it’s natural. But it still hurts like H-E-Double-Toothpicks.


At this point, we are officially two days into the madness, and I am already woefully behind. If I were running on my self-imposed schedule, I should have around 3,400 words by day 2. I might have 1,000. Maybe. If I turn my head to one side and squint at the page hard enough. It’s looking rather bleak. It’s feeling rather bleak. A big part of me wants to throw the mother of all hissy fits, flinging papers all around my writing space and tearing pages from my Moleskine.

But you know what? It might look bleak. And it might feel bleak. It might feel damn near impossible at this moment in time. I don’t have three thousand words. This is true. But what I do have is this: a beginning. A brand new beginning, for a brand new story. Maybe that’s what NaNo is all about. At any rate, it’s a good enough reason to keep calm and write on!


The Waiting Game

Is there anything as painful and as wonderful as waiting for something you really want? I don’t think so. It’s a constant internal struggle of ups and downs. It’s a constant stream of private drama and whispered conversations with oneself. “Could this really happen?” your mind asks, “Could it really come true? It would be like a dream — an actual, real-life dream — if it did. I want to think about it all the time. And yet, I don’t want to think about it at all. Because … what if?”

It’s delicious and horrible and wonderful and oh-so painful, all at the same time. It’s kind of like being in love, this type of waiting. It tugs and pulls your heart one way and, then, the next, all within the space of moments. And this happens again and again and again. It’s a delicate dance between hope and fear. The prospect of a private dream coming true is so beautiful and thrilling that it takes your breath away. And yet … The fear of “what if” is always lurking there, in the background.

What if nothing happens? What if the dream remains unfulfilled? The hope of something new and exciting spreads out before your mind, filled with joy and laughter and golden light. But the what if lurks in the shadows. You’re not sure you can cope with the “what if” part of things. Because it means nothing will change. That pathway into the future seems desolate and dark, devoid of hope and happiness.


I’m in the midst of my own waiting game. The suspense is wonderful, because I feel so full of hope. For the first time in several years, I can feel hope creeping in around the edges of my thoughts. It practically bubbles over inside of me, until I want to giggle like a loon. It’s strange, really, because this is the hope of something unknown. And yet, if it works out, it will, in some strange way, bring many things full-circle for me and for my little family.

I feel anxious and excited and terrified, all at the same time. I want to laugh at the possibilities of it all. And then, I want to cry with the fear that it might not happen. Because, if it doesn’t happen … Well, I’m not sure how I will manage to soldier on. I know that sounds terribly drama-queen of me, but there is a slice of my being that knows I will be despondent if this doesn’t happen. I don’t even want to think about that. I don’t want to think about any of it. And yet, it’s nearly all I can think about. My brain is full of hamster wheels, and they are constantly in motion. Turning, turning, turning.

I don’t have any control over it. I can’t do anything to make this thing happen. All I can do is sit, and wait, and pray. I think I have been talking God’s ear off with my little hopes and dreams. Sometimes, I feel very peaceful about it all. But then, anxiety creeps in because this is something I want so, so much. I’m not naive enough to believe it will be the answer to all my problems. In some ways, it could create more problems, at least in the short run. But, even so, my heart sings with the possibility. And trembles with the fear.

And the waiting continues.

Down the Rabbit Hole

I’ve never been a gamer. I’m old enough to have been around when Pac-Man first made his appearance, and I tore things up on those old arcade machines. I could make a quarter last for hours. But “real” (as in games that don’t have a big yellow ball eating dots and chasing ghosts) video games … not so much.

Generally, I consider myself an avid gamer-watcher. My husband loves to play games, as does my daughter. Hubby’s taste leans more toward the manly arts of war. Although he doesn’t have the time to play often now, his taste runs toward sniper or combat-type games, and I can remember many happy hours watching him shoot-em-up and acting as his spotter. You know, “Look out! There’s a guy over there! Oh, and there, too!” Child Unit loves fantasy or adventure-type games. We played our way through Zelda: Breath of the Wild recently, and we’ve started on Okami. When I say “we”, I mean that she does the actual playing, and I work out on the Precor while helping her spot bad guys or things that might contain money or useful items. I’m really good at spotting bad guys or things that shell out money, like hidden pots or the odd rock.

But I’ve never really sat down and felt the thrill of holding the controller in my own hands. I’ve never been the one running around fighting or jumping or whatever-ing. I played Mario Kart once, but I quickly ran my little go-kart thing right off the track. It was a painfully short game. And my family laughed at me. I don’t blame them; it was pretty funny.


I guess I just figured I was bad at video games. You know, one of those people who isn’t coordinated enough or brave enough or whatever enough to play on my own. I figured I was destined to be nothing more than a gamer-watcher. I’m such an introvert that I felt really shy about trying this out on my own. Even though it didn’t bother me terribly for everyone to laugh at me, I have to be honest with myself and admit that it did bother me a little. And it’s hard to try something new when you go into it already thinking you will be bad at it. It’s hard feeling like a failure. It sounds so silly to admit this out loud, but I was afraid to try. Stepping out of a comfort zone is like that. Even with something small, it’s scary.

After watching my daughter adventure and play her way through most of Hyrule in Breath of the Wild, I admit I was intrigued. I was more than intrigued. It was such a beautiful game. It seemed like such a fun adventure. Even to me, it was a beautiful adventure, and I was only watching! I gave it a lot of thought. Eventually, I brought up the topic with my husband. I felt silly and shy about it, but I told him I wanted to try gaming on my own. Since my daughter is done playing through Breath of the Wild, I thought, maybe, I could try that game out for myself.

My husband knows me so well. He knew that, if I played a game my daughter had previously played, I would feel awkward and shy about it. This is a weird thing about my personality. I generally busy myself trying to be as invisible as possible. And he wanted me to have my first gaming experience all on my own. So that I could discover a new adventure, all for myself. Before I could change my mind or talk myself out of it, we visited one of his and my daughter’s favorite gaming stores. And he bought me my very first video game … The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess.


And now, I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. Completely. I spent hours playing the game that first day. I picked out funny names for Link and for the horse. I ran all around the village, gathering money and fishing and trying to get new hearts. I spent hours playing the next day, too. And the next and the next. I’ve been on the forest adventure. I fought the enemies in the forest temple and freed the little kid and monkey. I herded goats. I searched for more money. I used the chickens to fly around the village. I lost custody of my horse, found it again, and got kidnapped. I turned into a wolf, and am now a bit stuck inside some kind of castle dungeon.

Am I any good at this game? No and hell no. I am clumsy. I run into walls. My Link runs around like a little drunk man with elf ears and too-big eyes.  And I’m even worse with the horse. Poor horse. I’m always running her into walls and fences and things. No wonder the village mayor’s daughter took her away from me! Oh, and I die. A LOT. If there is a way in which to die in this game, it’s a pretty good bet I have experienced it. I fail again and again and again.

But you know what? That’s okay! Maybe it’s even good to fail sometimes, because it gives us a chance to start over. I love how the video game, every time I die, asks me if I want to try again. I think life is like that, too. We have to remember to pick ourselves up and start again. And again. And again. And again. Even if it means falling down a rabbit hole every now and then.


One Good Person

I don’t think I’m understating things when I say the world seems to be full of shitty people. I am an introvert, and I live in a large metropolitan area. It makes me wonder if I notice more of the general crappiness of humanity because there is so darn much of it here. Maybe the whole introvert thing makes me more sensitive than I would like. Or, maybe it’s a combination of both of those things. I’m not sure, and I don’t think I care enough to puzzle through my feelings at this moment.

The point is this: The place where I live grates on me. There are so many people here, and every single one of them is out for Number One. There is always someone protesting … or tailgating in heavy traffic … or honking at you if you don’t move quickly enough … or taking up their space out of the middle of life, just because it’s most convenient for them … or yelling their opinion in your face, whether you want to hear it or not … or telling you what a horrible person you are if you don’t agree with them … or judging you for the way you look, or talk, or dress.

Online isn’t much better. If anything, it’s more of a jungle. The Left hates the Right. The Right hates the Left. Both sides wish everyone from the other side would die a horrible and painful death, and they don’t mind saying so — loudly and with prejudice — at every turn. Oh, and those opinions? Yeah. They are everywhere on the internet. Even here, in this blog. Yeah … I recognize I’m being slightly hypocritical here. I am sitting here, typing away about my own opinions on life and other things. Although, in my defense, I’m not trying to force anyone to agree with me. And I’m not yelling at them (literally or figuratively) for having a different opinion from mine.

It can be easy to fall prey to the gloom and sadness and overwhelming ICK of it all. Life feels like a slog. It’s easy to feel isolated and just … well, sad. Sometimes, I stop and wonder if I’m the last sane person in a jungle full of Crazy and Angry. If you knew me at all, you would realize how ridiculous it is to think of me being the last sane person in any sort of jungle … or forest … or slightly overgrown meadow, for that matter. Sometimes, I find myself wondering whether there are any Good People out there, hidden somewhere amongst the insults and anger and hate and yelling.


Last week, my daughter and I were on the way to her school. We had to drop off a form, and we were running late, as usual. Traffic was horrible, as usual. Traffic is always horrible around here. To get to her school, we have to travel down a busy road. It’s one of the most-used streets in our area, and is four lanes at some points and six at others. This road is always packed with traffic and with angry, speeding, honking, road-raging drivers. Always. And this particular day was no exception.

As we approached the intersection of our street with another busy, six-lane street, I realized traffic was crawling at a near standstill. And, as we got closer, it was easy to see the cause. A blind man had, somehow, wandered out into the street. He was two lanes away from the sidewalk, tapping the street with his cane, and weaving a path among the cars, all of which had (of course) come to a stop for him. I have no idea why or how he ended up there. Maybe he was unfamiliar with the area and became disoriented, thinking he was on the sidewalk but ending up on the street, instead. It was shocking and terrifying.

I felt my heart go out to this man in that instant. I felt so afraid for him, watching him weave in and out of traffic. His taps of the cane against the street seemed rather frantic, and I’m sure it was terrifying for him to hear the noises around him and to smell the smoke and exhaust from the cars. Maybe I’m putting too much of my own emotion into the incident. But, I know that’s how I would feel. I wanted to do something to help him, but I was in the far lane of traffic, which was still moving (at a pace slower than a snail’s crawl) past the spot. There was nowhere for me to pull over, and I couldn’t leave my daughter sitting in a car in traffic.

I decided I would turn around, find a place to pull over, and return to help. But would I be able to get back there in time? As I glanced into my rear view mirror to check on the blind man’s progress, I saw someone from a nearby business run out into the street. I could only spare a moment’s glance, but I saw this second man make his way into traffic, gently touch the blind man’s shoulder, and lead him back toward the sidewalk. It was small and simple and, yet, so incredibly heroic. And it reminded me that I’m not alone. There are a lot of Good People out there. Maybe they are hard to find sometimes, in amongst the shouting and anger and angst. But they are out there, being kind and quietly heroic.

Sometimes, the smallest gesture can make a huge difference. For the blind man, the second person’s gesture was, of course, huge. It was life-saving. It doesn’t get much bigger than that. But the second man’s gesture saved my life, too, in a smaller way. Even though I was just a passing observer, it touched me in a way I find hard to explain. Two strangers touched my life that day. The first reminded me how important it is for me to continue to look past myself and my own wants and needs, which can be hard in the face of the world in which we live. And the second … the second one restored my faith. It doesn’t get much bigger than that, either.

The Butterfly

Do you ever have one of those days when you wake up feeling out of sorts? It’s not that you feel sick. It’s not that you necessarily feel sad. It’s not that you feel anxious. It’s not even that you can pinpoint exactly how you feel. Or that you could explain it to anyone, if they asked. Of course, you’re pretty sure no one will ask because you are pretty sure no one gives a flying flip. Overall, you just feel … wrong.

I had one of those days on Wednesday. I didn’t sleep well the night before, and I didn’t know why. I was tired when I went to bed, and I was even more tired after I read for a little while. I tossed and turned and had to get up several times during the night. I overslept on Wednesday morning. Not that I have a particularly set schedule as a stay-at-home mom, but I like to get going by a certain time in the morning. There are things I generally want to accomplish with my days, like laundry and cleaning and exercise and errands.

As soon as I woke up on Wednesday, I knew I wouldn’t be accomplishing a darn thing with my day. I woke up wanting to cry, although I couldn’t figure out exactly why. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to be seen by anyone, so I didn’t want to be out in public. And yet, I didn’t want to be at home, either. From the moment I opened my eyes, things were shaping up to a No Good, Very Lousy, Crummy Day in the making.


It was clear I would be terrible company for myself that day, and I was bringing the dogs down. So I decided to go to a favorite restaurant for lunch. If it didn’t cheer me up, I figured it would at least be healthy for me to be in a place where I was around people, even if I was alone. Sometimes, you need to feel a group of people around you. Sometimes, you need to sit and hear the mix of voices washing over you. Maybe it’s a herd thing. Maybe it’s a way of reminding ourselves that we aren’t alone, after all. Maybe it’s just me.

Lunch was good. I had tacos. You can’t go wrong with that. I spent a pleasant hour or so eating and reading. I chatted with a couple of my favorite servers. It was nice. And yet, as I left the restaurant, I knew it hadn’t been enough. The funk was still with me. I could feel it settling around me like a personal fog or an old, musty overcoat that is two sizes too big.

As I was driving home, I sat at a stoplight, not really paying much attention to my surroundings. I was focussed on the light and on my own mixed-up feelings. A flurry of soft motion caught my eye, and I looked up to watch a butterfly flutter across the street. It flew right in front of my windshield, right over the hood of my car. I watched it go, winding and fluttering its way through the rest of the cars on the street.


It struck a chord with me: the delicate, fragile beauty of that one little creature in amongst the strong lines and beastly appearance of the cars around it. It was as if, suddenly, there was one spot of delicate color in a sooty, grimy, gray world. One small bit of color and life and beauty borne aloft on paper-thin wings. I held my breath as the butterfly went, flapping and dodging its crooked path through the hunks of metal around it. It seemed so small in comparison. And yet, there it was, just doing its own thing, making its way through the world. It seemed … impossible. Just impossible. I don’t know how else to explain it.

And that’s when it hit me: I was feeling small and alone and frightened. This hasn’t been a great year for me or my family. I don’t really have much extended family left. My parents are getting older. My daughter is growing up. One day, I will be an orphan. Hopefully, this won’t happen any time soon. But, for the first time in my life, I realize — really realize — it’s going to happen. One day, I won’t be anyone’s mom. I’ll still be her mom, of course. Nothing will change that. But she will go out and have her own life. She won’t really need me any longer. I’ve always known this was going to happen, too. It’s the goal my husband and I have worked toward all this time. But, for the first time, I realize — really realize — it’s going to happen. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. I thought, by now, I would have answers to all these things. I thought I would have everything all figured out. And I don’t. It scares me. I feel tiny in the face of the universe, and I feel tiny in the face of my own anxieties and fears.

You know that thing where all of the feelings and emotions hit you all at once? You sit there, not really comprehending what just happened as emotion after emotion after emotion washes over you. And each one shakes you to your very core. Each realization and each accompanying feeling rattle you right down to the center of your bones. You don’t know which way to turn. You don’t know what to feel. You don’t know what to think. That’s what happened to me as I sat in my car at that red light and watched a butterfly flap across the street. I started crying. And I couldn’t stop. I cried all the way home. After I got home, I sat in my car in the driveway and cried some more. Honestly, I don’t know why I was crying. Even thinking about it now, I couldn’t pinpoint one feeling or emotion that was causing this flood of tears. Maybe it was just that everything was too much. I don’t know.


If you’ve made it this far, I bet you are sitting there, staring at your computer and wondering what the heck. You are probably shaking your head and wanting me to give you a happy ending. I usually try to end my posts on something of an “up” note. I try to be positive. I don’t always succeed, but I try, hard, to make the most of whatever life hands me.

The truth is, I don’t have any happy ending for this post. I sat in my car in the driveway and cried. Later that afternoon, as I went to pick up my daughter, I called my mom. We talked about how sad we were over my Aunt Sue’s passing. We grieved together. And I cried all the way to the school. I pulled it together enough that I didn’t cry in front of my daughter. But that night, after my husband and daughter were both in bed, I sat in my office and cried some more. I held my boy dog and let my tears run into his fur. He didn’t seem to mind a bit of dampness. And then, I went to bed. The end.

But the next day, the sun came up. It was a new day, and I was still here — a bit worn, but maybe a bit stronger, too. Perhaps just surviving is its own kind of happy ending.

Learning to Let Go

I had a learning opportunity this past week. Not a course or certification or something like that, but a life lesson in the fine art of learning how to let go. Let me say this, right up front: It was not easy. It was so “not easy”, in fact, that I have diddled around and avoided writing this post all week, just because I didn’t want to think about it or face up to my feelings on the matter.

Life isn’t static, no matter how much I want it to be. I’m an adult. I’ve had “adult status” for quite a while now. And so, I know this. People I love have gotten older. People I love have died. I’ve lost beloved pets. I’ve lost friendships. I’ve lost my optimistic, sunny outlook on life. I’ve lost faith in myself. I’ve lost my way. The point is this: I have let go. My life has been a series of times when I have had to say good-bye and let go of things I have loved. You would think I would be a pro at it by now. You would think I would be all, “Oh. It’s happening again. That whole Life Is Changing, Gotta Let Go thing. I’ve got this covered. I can do this.”


It doesn’t work that way. No matter how many times I have to let go or say good-bye or figure out how to cope with the way my life shifts and changes and flows along, it just never works that way for me. I’m not a letting go person. I am a clinging to the things I love with all my might and wishing for nothing to change kind of person. That’s a mouthful. It’s not any easier to live than it is to type.

So … my lesson for this week.

My Child Unit is a freshman in high school this year. She just turned 14. She is a great kid. She is funny and smart. She is creative and weirdly wacky, which I love. She has purple hair and loves elephants and cats. And she still enjoys doing stuff with her mom. I love this, most of all. But, you know, she’s growing up. This is not easy for me. I feel like I’m totally okay with it, and then … BAM! It all just hits me, hard, right out of the blue. And I mean hard. It takes my breath away and makes me want to cry.

Child Unit is in marching band this year, and they have practice several times a week. On Tuesdays, they practice from 6pm-8:30pm. School gets out at 2:55pm, and Child Unit texted me this past Tuesday to ask if she could stay through after school until band practice. She was going to hang out with her friends, and they had plans to walk to a convenience store for snacks. Even to an old fart like me, it sounded like fun. And I could tell she was excited about it — a first, tiny taste of freedom and independence. I can still remember the heady, exhilarating feeling of that first outing with my friends, independent of my parents. It’s normal and healthy. It’s a rite of passage.


Of course, I said yes. She was very up front about their plans. She told me where they were going. She agreed to the street restrictions I proposed (as in: please don’t cross the insanely busy highway because people are idiots and don’t watch where they are going). She promised to text me as soon as they got back to the band hall so that I would know she was safe. She is a good kid. She is a responsible kid. And she deserves this. She deserves to stretch her wings. She deserves to learn how to be okay without her parents hovering around. She deserves to feel that sweet, terrifying, exciting freedom of being her own person.

The rational part of me knows all of these things. Because it’s logical. She has to live in the world. I won’t be around for forever, and it’s better for her to learn how to do this sooner rather than later. The rational part of me is glad she wants to do things on her own, with her friends.

But … the completely bat-shit crazy, irrational person who lives deep in my heart wants to scream NOOOOOOO! There is a crazy lady inside of me who wants to stop time, hold on tight, and make sure my sweet daughter never grows up. Because my crazy lady … Well, she’s crazy. It’s not that I want my daughter to stay static and be a little kid forever. Even Crazy Lady doesn’t want that. To have her grow up, become independent, and live a happy life is the goal. It’s what I’ve been working toward, from the moment she entered the world. Just … I kind of want her to do all these things in plain view of me, so I always know where she is and what she is doing. That’s not a bad thing, right? I mean … totally rational. And sensible.

Not! I know that. And Crazy Lady knows it, too. We both hate it. Rational me hates it a little. Crazy Lady hates it a lot.


You’ll be happy to know Child Unit, Rational Me, and Crazy Lady all survived. I took a lot of deep breaths and said a lot of prayers. Child Unit had a good time with her friends, remained safe on her outing, and texted me as soon as she got back to the band hall at school — just like she promised. Overall, it was a huge success. It made me happy to see how excited she was when I picked her up that night after practice was over. She told me all about where they went and what they did. I loved hearing those stories.

And yet, there was a touch of bittersweet sadness underneath it all. From the moment she entered this world, she has been growing and changing. First steps … first day of Kindergarten … first day of Middle School … first sleep-over … first field trip … and so many more that I can’t even think to list right now. All of these things have been carrying her away from me, little by little. It didn’t seem possible when she was two or seven or even twelve. The idea that she would, one day, walk away for real seemed foggy and far away. Now, though, it isn’t. It is coming. I look at my daughter and see a woman growing out of the giggly, silly little girl. A beautiful, amazing woman, who is strong and sweet and confident. A beautiful woman, who is walking away from me and into the future that lies ahead.

And that’s okay. Because I will always be back here, cheering her on — no matter how hard it is, and no matter how many times I have to learn to let go.

The Day of Feeling Sassy

Today has been a rather annoying day. My daughter is sick-ish. I say “ish” because we went to the doctor this morning, only to find out she likely doesn’t have strep or anything bacterial. It looks like our first “lovely” virus of the season has come home to roost. So, while my daughter feels pretty crummy, overall, there isn’t much that can be done for it. Like so many other things in life, she just has to live through it. It seems I might also be living through it very soon. I now have a sore throat, congestion, and headache. I think my kiddo managed to pass her ick along to me. Perhaps this means she will soon be on the mend. My husband has a theory that, in order to recover from a virus or cold,  you must pass it along to someone else. In our house, I am usually the “someone else”. Yahoo.



As for me, I got into an argument over the phone with my daughter’s dentist’s receptionist. (Try saying that three times really fast!) Up until this morning, I thought my daughter was struggling with allergies. As soon as I found out it is actually a virus, I called to cancel her dental appointment. I would prefer to keep the appointment because it’s a pain to reschedule due to my daughter’s marching band commitments. But I thought it would be kinder to cancel in order to avoid exposing the hygienists to my kiddo’s germy mouth and face.

Here’s the problem: the dentist has a 24-hour cancellation policy. I didn’t give them the required 24-hour notice, so the receptionist informed me that I would be charged the next time this happened. When I explained to the receptionist that we only just found out my daughter had a virus, as opposed to allergies, she said she understood that. She also said she understood there was no way I could have known in enough time to meet their notice requirements. But I still needed to tell them 24 hours ahead of time. Basically, in this instance, I would have had to be psychic in order to give them the required notice. But, of course, this doesn’t matter. The policy is the policy is the policy. And there are no exceptions to the policy. Keep in mind the dentist has canceled on us several times with two or three-hours notice. It seems the whole 24-hour thing doesn’t apply to him. Since I’m not psychic, I guess I will have to take my sick kid to the dentist next time. When I tried to explain this to the receptionist, she insisted this is not what she was saying. She was only saying they have a 24-hour notice policy, and I have to give them 24-hours notice even when my daughter is sick. Okay … Again, not psychic. But, whatever.

I’m usually so easy-going. I am the last person to argue with someone or make a fuss about anything. I was trained, from an early age, to put the feelings of pretty much everyone ahead of my own. But this felt so ridiculous to me. After trying, politely, to discuss this with the receptionist, it became obvious we were getting nowhere fast. I ended up cutting her off with a “thank you” and hanging up on her. I don’t know if they are going to charge me for this missed visit or not.


Then, I ducked into my local Ulta to see if I could replace a nail polish I broke yesterday. My hunt was successful, which was awesome. As I was standing in line to pay, the woman in front of me had a coupon for buy one, get one 50% off. She had two make-up pencil things, and she wanted to use her coupon on them. Seems easy enough. Except, her coupon wouldn’t work. The cashier left to go check with her manager. She came back and informed the woman in front of me that the coupon wasn’t going to work. It was for any eye or face product, and one of the products this woman wanted to buy was a lip pencil. The woman in front of me said, “Oh. Okay.” And just left it at that.

But … seriously … aren’t your lips on your face? I was standing there, listening to this whole exchange, and I was right on the verge of saying, “Wait. Not okay! Where are your lips? ‘Cuz mine are on my face.” But then, I remembered these were strangers, and I didn’t have any horse in this particular race. I practically had to cover my mouth with my hand to keep the words from popping out of their own accord.


When I told my daughter about this, she looked at me and said, “Mom. You’re really sassy today, aren’t you?”

Um … yep! I guess I am.

No “Regerts”

Have you ever been cruising along on the internet and come across one of those click-bait-y things talking about bad tattoos? And then, of course, you click it. Not that you’re proud of this or anything, but … you know … you kinda feel like you NEED to click it. The click-bait is strong. It sucks you in. Or … maybe it’s just me? I’m sitting here thinking that, perhaps, I shouldn’t admit to all of this out loud. But anyhow. Too late for that! I’m letting it all hang out here on the blog. I know, it’s scary, and none of us want to look too closely. But there you go.

Anyhow … I always end up clicking on the click-bait-y thing about the bad tattoos. I love tattoos. I really want a tattoo. I’ve wanted a tattoo for years now — probably since my late teens/early twenties. I don’t have one because I can’t get past my needle phobia, but I tease myself with thinking about someday. Someday, I will do this. Someday, I will take that plunge. And it will be fabulous and magical and All The Things. Truthfully, I doubt any of this would be true. I’m a couple of years away from the big 5-0, which means I’m staring “old age” in the face sooner rather than later. And I’m not sure a tattoo would look as awesome on 70 or 80-year old skin as it would on 20 or even nearly-50-year old skin. Well, let’s be honest. I’m talking about MY skin. I’ve seen tons of awesome tattoos on people much older than me, and they all rock them. I just don’t think I have that level of innate awesomeness. I have the sneaking suspicion that I shall always be a bit pitiful and squidgy around the edges, and this will only get worse as I age. I mean, I’ve been waiting for the innate awesomeness to kick in for a lot of years now. It hasn’t happened yet.

In the slideshow of “bad” tattoos — most of which aren’t bad at all, but are, in fact, freaking awesome — there is always that one picture of the person who wanted a NO REGRETS tattoo and ended up with NO “REGERTS”, instead. I have no idea if there are scads of people running around out there in the world with No Regerts written somewhere on their bodies, or if it’s just one poor guy who keeps making the rounds. That would actually be quite a nightmare, wouldn’t it? To make one innocent mistake and have it continue to come back again and again and again … Ugh. I feel a little sick to my stomach, just thinking about it.


This isn’t a post about tattoos, by the way. I know it seems like a whole tattoo thing, since I got off on a tangent. And, apparently, I enjoy typing the word “tattoo” about a gazillion times in one post. In one paragraph, for that matter. I’m feeling a bit scattered lately, and my less-than-awesomeness is showing. My less-than-awesomeness pretty much shows all the time. Lately, it’s just much more disorganized.

The point of this post (she says, now that we are 5 paragraphs into this disaster) is that the NO REGERTS tattoo speaks to me on some primal level. If you think about it, that’s life, all wrapped up in one badly thought out tattoo. How often in my life and, in particular, in my younger years, have I told myself I am going to take steps to make sure I have no regrets. I am going to do the things I love. I am going to be brave and put myself out there. I am going to follow my dreams wherever they might lead, and I will not be swayed away from them — not even by the sheer terror of failure. I have sworn these things and resolved these things so many times. Hundreds of times. Thousands of times. Gazillions of times.

And yet, here I am … a rather overweight woman who is slightly squidgy around the edges, isn’t as young as she used to be, and does not have terrific hair. I have not followed my dreams. At this point, I’m not even sure I remember what my dreams were. Or if I even managed to have dreams. And the fear of failure — it’s out there, lurking just around every figurative corner. Fear keeps me from doing a lot of things, actually. I know this. I hate this. And yet, I can’t seem to break that habit.


It’s the box. I can’t seem to break out of the box into which my life has put me. But here’s the thing: I’m the one who built it! I made the box. I know every corner and every inch of it. I know the spots where it is sturdy and where it is the weakest. I know the best way to break out of it. And yet … And yet … It doesn’t happen. No matter how many chances I give myself, no matter how many personal pep talks, I remain firmly stuck inside my little box. A slave to my self-imposed limitations. I fall prey to telling myself I can’t do things. I end up feeling like a complete failure in every aspect of my life. In short, I not only have regrets. I also have REGERTS.

When I was younger, I thought I would have everything figured out by this stage in my life. I thought I would be settled and successful. Or, at the very least, I thought I would feel like I had accomplished something. Instead, I look at my life, and I feel like a big fat failure. I feel like there is a thin veneer I show to the rest of the world. From that small outside bit, I look like a person who has her shit together. Underneath, I’m a mess. I’m a total and complete mess all the damn time. I’m so scared of failing that I’ve pretty much guaranteed I will never succeed. I feel like I’m also too afraid to try any more! That’s a death knell, to be sure.

Am I being too hard on myself? Is this my depression, sneaking up on me when I’m not looking? Am I the only person out there who struggles with this? I have mixed feelings. Part of me wants to feel that I am not alone. But there is another part of me that hopes no one else has to suffer through the doubt, fear, and self hatred that seems to be such a big part of my life right now. Here’s to NO REGERTS — for all of us!

Everything You Want

What if you could have Everything you wanted? It seems like it would be great, doesn’t it? Or fabulous or perfect or whatever it is that comes beyond all those words that lurk in our minds alongside “great”. It lives in your mind, that “Everything”. It lives there like a dream. You can close your eyes and feel it there, taking shape somewhere inside your soul. You can see the edges of it. You can smell the smells and taste the flavors that make up your dream — that make up your “Everything”, whatever that may be.

It’s beautiful and bittersweet. You just know, if you could only get your “Everything”, your life would be all fixed. It would be perfect and happy. There would be no more worries and no more arguments and no more fear of what might happen and no more stress over possibly making a wrong choice. Because, of course, this is your “Everything”. Everything You Ever Wanted. How could it be wrong? It couldn’t. That’s what your mind tells you. That’s what the dream tells you. And the dream is right: it is perfect and beautiful and happy. And, above all, it is safe. Because it’s just a dream, and you can’t conceive of it ever truly happening in your life. No matter how much you shape it to your will or taste its sweet flavors or feel the roughness of its edges, “Everything” remains insubstantial and out of reach. That’s the bittersweet part. You can feel it. You can taste it. You can see it. But you can’t touch it — not really.


I have an “Everything”. I have lots of them, actually. But one, in particular, deals with being able to live in a certain place. For years now, the place where we currently live has worn on me. It makes me feel ragged and rubbed raw in the places where my mind and soul meet. For a while now, I’ve found myself thinking in an “if only” sort of way: if only we didn’t live here, things would be better … if only we could go home, back to the place where my heart longs to be, things would be better. I would be better. The rough spots in my soul and psyche would magically smooth themselves over. The birds would sing and fairies would dance outside my window and there would be nothing but rainbows and unicorns. In short, it would be Pretty Damn Good. What? This is my “Everything”. I can have rainbows and unicorns, if I want. The point is this: life looks way better to me on the other side of the fence than it does on this side, where I can see every bit of flotsam and all the blades of grass that have turned brown over the years.

This morning, my husband mentioned something that could make my much longed-for “Everything” a reality. It’s only a slim chance. Really, at this point, it’s not even accurate to call it a chance. It’s a wisp of a whisper of the slimmest possibility. But it’s way more than I’ve had in the last fifteen years of what I think of as my exile. It’s a hint of maybe and, as such, it feels so very concrete. In some realm of the imagination, this could happen. It almost makes me want to cry, just thinking of this teeny-tiny maybe.


But then, I stopped to think. And the heaviness of reality (even a whisper of a maybe of a reality has a heaviness to it, when we’re talking about something as fanciful as a dream) swooped in and cloaked the edges of my “Everything”. Because the place I left is much-loved in my mind. It is home, and it will always be home. And, as such, it will always be beloved. But it’s not perfect. There are drawbacks and worries and potential pit-falls. Even if it could happen, it might not be the right thing for my family. Or for me. Maybe it just seems like the right thing in my mind because it’s been a dream for such a long time. Because it’s my “Everything”. And because dreams are always perfect and right. They can’t help it. They don’t know how to be anything else.

Sometimes, I think the only thing worse than not having your “Everything” is facing a moment when “Everything” might come true. What if “Everything” is just what I always expected it would be? What if it’s not? Which one of these things is worse? Either way, I will lose the dream I’ve nurtured in my heart of hearts for all these years. If it comes true, it becomes reality and starts to fade and shred around the edges, colored with my all-too-human disappointment in life and in myself. If it doesn’t come true, I have to face the idea that it will likely never happen and, thus, let go. Either one is painful. And I am left feeling human and small and vulnerable in the face of my internal struggle.


I’m a Unicorn


On Friday, I got new hair. New hair!! Well, not really “new” hair. I mean, it’s still my same old, super-fine, not-nearly-thick-enough hair on my head. But it feels like brand new hair. Is there anything better than getting your hair done? I mean, really … There is something so incredibly uplifting and liberating about getting a really great color and cut. It makes me feel better about everything in my life. It makes me feel better about being me. And that, my friends, is a tall order.

I’ve been rocking the “crazy” hair color for a while now. But all in different tones of blue — sometimes dark, sometimes bright, sometimes more pastel, sometimes kinda turquoise, sometimes a mix of several of these tones. But always blue. I love me some blue. It is my favorite color of life. I think blue is my spirit animal. Can a color be a spirit animal? Whatever. If I had a spirit animal, it would be blue. This is what I’m saying.

So, of course, you are probably sitting there, reading this post and thinking, “Yeah, yeah. We get it. You love blue. You went with blue hair yet again, and you are sitting here all excited and pretending it’s totally different. When it’s not.” I can see why you would think this. I tend to get obsessed with things. And once I settle on a color I love, I stick with it. For-freaking-ever!

But there are times in our lives when we just feel like we need a change. When it’s time to blast our way out of the rut we have dug for ourselves, even if that rut has become comfortable and feels safe. Especially if that rut feels safe and comfortable! My life has been one giant ball of stress since last October. And, you know what? I’m not sure it’s ever going to get any better. I don’t know if things are ever going to settle down. Or if I will ever feel better about … well, anything. I’ve been so out of sorts recently. So I went into my appointment on Friday and, when my stylist asked me what I wanted to do, I told her I needed a change. I had a color combination suggestion, but I told her I was willing to leave it all up to her.


And this is what I ended up with! I love it so, so, so much. I wasn’t expecting pink tones at all. I told my stylist I didn’t even want to see it until she was totally done with the cut and style and everything. And when she was done and told me to take a look … Well, honestly, I can’t even describe it. I went into the salon with drab, dull hair that had faded out in all the wrong places and that was much, much too long for my liking. I went into the salon feeling horrible about life and myself. I felt ugly and unhappy and just … ick.

And then, I looked into the mirror and saw this amazing creation of pinks and purples and blues and turquoises, and I wanted to cry. Not in a bad way. It made me so, so, so happy. It doesn’t sound like enough to say that it made me happy. And yet, saying this is saying everything in one small word. I could feel the laughter bubbling up, coming from somewhere deep down inside of me — a place I had almost forgotten existed. And I stood there, staring into the mirror without recognizing the amazingly brave, beautiful person staring back at me. And I felt all of these things inside of me: laughter and amazement and tears and just all the feels. My stylist was watching me. I could see her reflection in the mirror, just over my shoulder. And she had a worried look on her face. Until I managed to choke out, “I love it.”

It hardly seems adequate. I wanted to explain to her how I had come in feeling low and depressed and horrible. I wanted to tell her how I have had trouble dragging myself out of bed every morning since last October, when my aunt passed away. I wanted to tell her how I have nightmares at night about my husband dying. I wanted to explain that all of these things have been whirling away inside of my mind, hammering at me until I started to hate myself. I wanted to tell her how I came into my appointment feeling ugly and like I wasn’t worthy of existence. But now … Now, I felt brave and beautiful and, somehow, more human than before. I couldn’t find the words to explain any of this, so I fell back on telling her how much I loved it. I gave her a hug, and I hope she, somehow, knows the amazing miracle she has worked in my life. A miracle in the form of something as simple as hair.

Does it fix everything in my life? Will having a new and different hair color mean that I won’t be depressed? Or that I will, suddenly, not be stressed about things I can’t control? Or that things will, magically, be perfect for us emotionally and financially and all of that? No, of course not. It’s just hair. But it makes me feel better about myself. It makes me feel better about being who I am. It makes me feel like I am worthy of being alive and taking up space in this world. It makes me feel beautiful.

And, when the depression and the troubles start to hammer away at me, I can always tell myself: Not today, guys. Because I’m a unicorn!