Hold on there, cowboy

2013-10-26 14.03.10 (2)

Who decided that this is the most wonderful time of the year?

I disagree.

Let it be any damn well time of the year I want it to be. Hell, I might make songs about it.

It's the most wonderful time of the year! With tree leaves a falling, And jacket weather calling, Let's have two more beeeeeers! Fall's the most wonderful time of the year!

Thank you, thank you very much. No, please hold your applause.

I guess that there wasn't an entire season about how we're having the best time we will all year... and it's typically stressful emotionally, on the purse strings, not to mention it's fucking cold (geographically dependent).  I'd just like to be the one who is allowed to call out my most wonderful time of the year. And the best part of all is that it's not static. No, sir! The best part of this year may be the worst part of next year!

Ah, the truth to the magic 8-ball that is life.

So here's to everyone on this, our New Year's Eve. Remember your old acquaintance and do whatever the hell you want. 2014 is your oyster. Dig in.

Do you ever?

Feel like you're nothing?

I go through phases. I either feel fantastic about my accomplishments or I feel as though I have zero accomplishments. It's one or the other; there is no middle ground, no gray area.

And all that's fine. I think most people go through times when they question themselves and wonder just what in the hell they're doing with their lives.

But here's the thing.

I still can't figure out what these impossible standards of mine mean. Why can't I let them go? Why can't I set my own standards from scratch? I want to set standards that have no memory, no history. I want to set standards for myself that are solid and real without guilt attached.

Should is a damned word.

But, I shouldn't feel as though I don't matter. And I shouldn't judge myself based on a fleeting feeling. And I shouldn't always be a swinging pendulum going from one extreme to another. And I shouldn't.

But I do.

Fresh start?

People never want to start over if things are going well. Because why would they? Starting over from zero is easier/better/more enticing than continuing on in the negative. So, a fresh start? What does that mean? It means that things have recently been overcooked, garbled and ultimately disappointing. So is a fresh start really what you’re looking for? Or are you looking in a panic for the do-over button? Are you looking for a time machine? Are you looking for a way to set things back to the way they were? Hubbell?

What are you looking for? For what are you looking? A way to end a question without preposition?

So what’s better? To start over or to try to make sense of the mess? The mess. How did it become a mess? How did it become a situation that has been deemed beyond repair? How did it become something that was unable to be fixed? Did it? Or did you all of a sudden become too weak?

There’s a breaking point. But it's a point of observation. It's a point at which you should investigate, study what the issues are and how to solve them. Not a point to actually break. Right?


But moving through is hard. Harder than staring over. Hence my point.

The easy way out isn't the best way out, most of the time. Who in the hell decided on that design? But it's good. It's a design that pushes us. It pushes us to be stronger and it pushes us to discover our own identity and it pushes us to find the limits of our potential.

But it's hard. It's never easy. But in the end, it's worth it.


***This rant excludes people who had something unimaginably terrible happen to them, including natural disasters, unexpected diseases/deaths, unfortunate loss, etc.

The night before I have to grow up

I turn 30 tomorrow. I don't know why, but it's kind of freaking me out. However, the thought of turning, say, 32 doesn't freak me out. But something about crossing that threshold is making me feel... je ne sais quoi. It's not quite melancholy and it's definitely not nostalgia. But it feels like I'm about to walk through a door and leave something behind.

"They" say that your 30s are better than your 20s because you know yourself (or at least better than before). I suppose that is inevitably true. I'm looking forward to that because my 20s have kind of felt like a hot mess at times. Who am I? Where am I going? What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Is it supposed to look like that? What's that smell? Etc. But I'm hopeful and optimistic that there will be less questions in the next decade. Either that or I hope that I choose not to let the unanswerable questions get me down.

So here I sit. I've done the dishes, the laundry is put away, the floor has been vacuumed, the dog has been walked and I'm responsibly enjoying a refreshing after-work beer. The big plan for my last night of my 20s? Watch some streaming television, read and turn in early.

And as for tomorrow? For the big day? I've taken off from work, having imagined that I would do something AMAZING! But I ended up scheduling an annual physical that I've missed for the past 7 years. Lame, right?

Naturally, however, there will be a delicious dinner, because what is getting older without a solid meal for which animals have given their lives so that I may enjoy their flesh?

I don't know. It feels like it's about to be big, but I know it's going to be anti-climactic and fizzle out without much ado. Which is the best I could hope for, I guess.

But I still can't shake this feeling. Maybe it's indigestion.

Friday afternoon poetry

An itch you can't scratchA scratch you can't reach A stretch you can't stretch Expansion is constant and always retreating Always is a dirty word and should never be used Should, always, never Forever is typically hopeful, but I won't say always Never is usually throwing in the towel

My point of view is skewed and others look in with judgement, more experience, better approaches I can see you, too, you know It bothers me sometimes that there are parts of my body I'll never be able to see without a mirror

Maintain, I have to at least maintain But if I'm only treading water, I'll eventually drown where I paddle My dreams haunt me with reality

Reality is invading my reality

A tissue by any other name

I make an effort to say, "tissues." 1) Because I think it's a cute word and 2) because it's not a name-brand. I don't always use Kleenex. In winter months, I require Puffs with lotion because my nose is a princess and extra drippy. But, overall, I say Kleenex when I need a tissue.

Band-Aid won the day with band-aids. Nothing more to say on that front.


Chap Stick.

I learned recently that Adrenaline is the name brand for Epinephrine.

Strange that these are primarily toiletry items. Maybe not so strange. The bathroom is a strange place full of strange needs. And Until someone invents a product for just that need, we don't even know we need it.

Toilet paper didn't evolve itself quite so suddenly, so it remains anonymous.

Let's end it there, with toilet paper.




So, what’s it going to be? There’s something that I want to write, but I’m not exactly sure what that’s going to be yet. There are a lot of things that I need to say and there are a lot of things that need to be understood. But I’m not sure I’m ready yet and I’m not sure I’m there yet.

Maybe if I had had more support growing up and maybe if I had any sense of developed self-esteem, things would have turned out differently. And when I say maybe, I mean definitely. What happens when you grow up being the safety net for those who are supposed to be spending their time being your safety net? What happens if you grow up listening and never being heard? What happens when you grow up meant to feel guilty for anything having to do with self-identity?

You grow into the empty shell you were brought up to be.

The journey to finding myself has been a constant in my life. I’ve never quite been there, never reached the end goal. I’ve never been able to stand up and say, “I am ______.” Because I’m still figuring that out. And even if I think that I have an answer, chances are I’m too much of a yellow-belly to say so. Fear of judgment, fear of rejection, fear of love.

So who am I? I am a crier, a feeler, a flighter. I am an artist, a writer and a reader. I am a cheese lover, a beer lover and a lover. I’m a laugher and a joker and a midnight… omelet maker.

But I’m still lost. And I’m still searching. And I’m still trying to get used to it. And I’m still trying to let myself out and let myself be. And most of all – and most importantly of all – I’m still trying to like me.

I say neigh

I’m ambivalent when it comes to horses. There’s always that girl or two in grade school that think that horses are the tits. I don’t know if Lisa Frank is still rocking it with school supplies – probably not – but the Horse Girls were always into that and the occasional dolphin scene.

Riding horses isn’t a talent that comes naturally. There seems to be a rhythm that you can’t immediately sync up with, like hearing some new form of music. And the downfall (hell, punishment) to not being able to catch on and move simultaneously with the manuring beast is getting racked in the crotch repetitively until you either get it or give up. It’s trial by crotch is what it is.

People think horses to be noble creatures. And I guess they are. But I have a hard time trusting an animal that you’re supposed to feel with your palm straight to ensure it doesn’t confuse your finger with a carrot.

I say neigh.